why do?

why do i question
that
which has
no answer?

where was i
to choose
criticize
or even
witness
when all came into being?

when i was no one

nothing

until i was

but only for a brief moment

why do i resent
giving back
the gift
loaned
with no
promise
or
guarantee
or
requirement
other
than
giving it back
so
it can be given
to
another?

why do i see
and seek out
the very things
that rob color
and light
when I could see
and seek out
that which is beautiful
and gives delight?

why do i claw
at my soul
already
scabbed and raw?

do i need
for
all to see
and read
my trauma?

but what
if no one
understands?

then the tales
encoded in
the argot of scars
are
wasted
along with the longing
of understanding

why do i feel
lost
afraid
angry
even when
memory
has melted away
like ice in sunlight
the ledger of
wounding?

why do i waste
my time on these
ghosts?

why do any of us?

i guess it's because
we can

for to waste something
precious
is to mock
god