Imagine it's 3:00 in the morning, and drizzling rain. America comes home to a quiet empty house and finds this handwritten letter on the kitchen table:
Dear America,
This is going to be hard for both of us. I don't know how to leave you but I have to. You've changed. You don't see it. It's all secrets and lies and spying on me and you can't even talk about what you've done in the neighborhood -- you just get pissed off when I ask. You come home with blood on your clothes all the time, like that's normal.
Back in the beginning you said so many amazing things about freedom and self-determination and human rights. I believed all that shit. I still do. If you meant it, then you understand, it applies to me too. I want my freedom. I know you'll try to stop me and maybe hurt me. Pretty sad, that's the only game you got left. You could kill me I guess. You could shoot at me and laugh because it makes my body jump and my heart go up in my throat. That's not the same as changing my mind. You're the one who taught my mind to be strong.
When I'm on my own, I'm going to be who I thought you were.
I'll see you around,
Cascadia
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
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