this is my / home. / don't try and tell me where I belong / don't try and tell me where I'm from / I know / don't tell me where my mother gave birth to me / this is my fucking home. / and even if my hands are bruised and broken / I will still hold tight to the western edge of the Atlantic. / you can rip me away from this land, but you can never destroy the American in me / because goddamn, I am American / I will scream it from the mountains, from the jagged rips along my country's side / I will scream it from the purple valleys, thick with grains and drunken spirit / I will scream it from the hot, deathly glare of desert sun. / I will scream and scream / until my voice is gone / until every single one of my vocal cords splits in two. / and please don't try and tell me I'll get used to it / that my parents are from there / that plenty of people move away / but to me it's foreign / it's not home to me / don't pretend you can assume who I am based on the color of my skin / because you can't / you won't / and fuck off / because this is my country / and I'm not planning on leaving / you ask if this is a poem and I respond with this is an anthem / no, I'm not moving away without a fight / no, I cannot adjust / yes, I am stubborn / and I am American, don't ask me twice.
