Such a Fine Little Forgery

My first love, the arranged marriage of my birth, your hands so cold upon my heart.

You’re proud and, oh, so vain, you strut about before the mirror of the earth,

Your borrowed dress so bright, your arms appear so warm, so full of light,

But underneath all your silks and satins lives such a pretty little liar,

Such a fine little forgery. You gave so very little and took so very much.

Your purse is heavy with empty promises, your heart full of empty dreams.

I fell in love with your ideas but all your fine words fell to the ground,

Still births born in your vacant heart, each one worse than the last.

You nursed the greediest and left the weak ones weeping in the dark.

Such a terrible mother you’ve turned out to be, a violent father, a fractious son.

You swagger about, your head so lofty, your pride, so high above the rest,

But your house of lies and liars is divided and absolutely corrupt.

Your children go hungry while you pick fights with old men on every street.

You’re so rude it hurts my ears to listen, you give advice though no one asks.

You force your way into every neighbor’s home, such an unwelcome houseguest.

You disrespect every custom, you quarrel with all you meet.

Reckless, belligerent, cocksure and careless, you’re a slum in a false façade,

You raped my brothers and objectified my sisters for your gain,

You throw your strength before you, like justice, like mercy, like hope,

But underneath all your false smiles lies a sharp set of teeth.

You set upon the weakest in the most compassionate of ways.

Your cold indifference alone could fill graveyards, your grin makes me weep.

I’d like to tell you that it’s not you, that it’s me, but its most definitely you.

You’re sick with a cancer I can’t cure, but you love it so damn well.

You were once so beautiful and true, but now I can hardly stand the look of you.

You were supposed to be the dream, but you devoured all the dreams and all the dreamers too.

I will always love your children, your family of adoption and blood alike,

Those restless wanderers, those pounders of hard streets and criers of such dark nights.

America, I loved you, but I can’t live with you ever again. Let’s be friends. Keep in touch.

Eric M. Petit