America by Mia Altamuro

America, my homeland,

my graveyard;

my seductress, my assassin.

America, who are you,

and who am I to you?

America, who are you,

land of the free

or the bourgeoisie?

America, who are you,

home of the brave

or the slave?

America, who are you,

and when will you come home to me?

They say you are

by the people, of the people, for the people,

but which people?

I memorized your hymns

and took your communion,

are you proud of me?

All to achieve your dream,

but who am I to dream?

I’m just a poor girl,

born at your feet.

You are the land who birthed me

to the bottom of humility,

then tell me to dream,

how dare you.

America, my heart,

my hell,

there’s no one I’d rather hate

than you,

you’re greedy and sinful,

proud and beautiful,

yet the sweetest song I’ve ever known.

fuck you, America.

there, I said it,

are you happy with me?

What can I do for you,

shall I stay up until midnight counting your stars,

wake up at dawn fighting your wars,

resign myself to the background

instead of asking for more?

I think I love you

more than you love you,

but who am I to love you,

when I am broken and flawed and damaged,

yet trying so hard, just like you.

America, I never had a father

except God above.

He holds me close through all my faults,

caresses my face when I spit in His,

and you are the bed He tucks me into.

I won’t leave,

no, I won’t abandon

that dream.

Mia Altamuro is an eighteen year old writer from New York. She studies Journalism and Communications at Suny New Paltz. She was a semi finalist in the Blank Theatre Young Playwrights Festival, and has been published in Lupercalia and Heroica. She is @mia.isabelle_ on Instagram and @m.bella2003 on Tik Tok.

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