My Guyana

My nation has paused. It sits watching the outside world watch itself. Then my nation starts moving and I’m left behind watching my nation fall into a history where our mother country travels to a future of prosperity. I’m mad at my Guyana, my country, blessed under one god but cursed by people who cannot seem to hold hands, who cannot seem to understand the functions of my government, but will displace us and erase us. And my nation, my Guyana, waits for my return but I sit on my throne looking down at these skunts, these skettles, of another world who don’t seem to understand my Guyana but neither do I. I have left her behind. I have stripped myself of black, gold, and green but have kept the white and red and added in blue and fancy stars. But my Guyana still warms my heart, still bleeds out my history. My future. She asks me if I still remember my schoolyard days and I tell her yes but she laughs because the visions are blurred and we have lost each other. We have moved forward in a world that is chained by unanswered questions and I cannot explain to Guyana that she is not the place for me even though she has kissed my forehead goodnight and sat on a swing waiting for the sunrise of another day. My Guyana grows old. She watches as the poets, writers, and singers glorify her name and put red lipstick on a mouth with a crooked smile and put contacts in eyes that no longer sit staring out at the seawall. And my country drifts by as another face lost in the art of words of people cannot understand what I have left behind.

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