This Land Is My Land, This Land Is Your Land

Your curvy rounds make no difference

Engraved in me are your maps, sketched in the back of my hands 

In red, white and blue.

Early morning assembly, microphone in hand.

I walked up in front and 7 year old me proudly sang:

"O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming…”

O' can you stay composed when out of nowhere comes a bang-bang, 

Two girls scurrying towards me as I walked to campus.

I moved to the right then swiftly to the left;

"We go right in this country" one of them said as if this country belonged to her. 

Was it my dark skin or my headphones that gave her permission to possess this land? 

I contemplate whether or not to answer back; 

A smoldering inferno within me, trembling hands, 

Mouth sewed tight, frozen in time.

Today I sing: 

This land is my land

This land is your land

This land is my land, too.