What about me?

I am repeating 'what about me?' again and again, but never aloud. Perhaps to the mirror every so often, to watch them terrible like the weak, as weights once tucked firmly in my skull drag them to the ground. Now on my knees, I ought to pray. Though a fear transpires, that a god I never believed in will utter angrily from the skies 'what about you?' only then will I choke on epiphany. Even a god who knows all, knows nothing of me.