Your hollow leg is just a shell and it may crack at any time. Fault lines lie between lies caused by hungry marches unstable of a cause. I thirst with you yet your water is not safe to drink, as none is clear as crystal. You dual with each other, you dual with your mothers and you dual with the unknown, overestimating your capabilities and diminishing the ones you have. For this, I crave my distance, yet I miss your beauty and your touch in the open air when it is crisp and unscathed with fumes. I miss the easiness of knowing my place with thy neighbors yet I enjoy the mystery of being foreign, of feeling self-expelled because I have exercised my right of choice. Dearest USA, that's the problem, you just don't know what's right anymore. Because right means left when left is up but now it's down so it's a bit mixed up. I just don't understand common judgment. I love who I want yet it's not always a choice. I don't understand why this matters. I seem to enjoy my freedom more when I'm away from you, which is perplexing really, considering that's your national concept. Just a concept, an idea, an experiment monitored and tested then later thrown out because it just doesn't work. Tell me, Lady America, what works for you? Think about it and write me back. Or perhaps write another anthem to be sung when the world plummets down in a tub full of ice, just slow enough to hear the echos of "i told you so" past the point of no return. I'll try and leave space on my couch, for you and your hollow leg.
Yours truly,
Antarctica
Yours truly,
Antarctica
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