Fault Lines

By Breckyn Forcey

We carve the country in half

Like it’s a ripe fruit,

Like it’s meant to be eaten

Only by one side.

Red maps, blue maps

As if geography decides

Who gets to be human. 

As if a border between states

Is also a border between hearts.

We call ourselves 

The United States,

But what are we united in,

Besides suspicion?

Besides the ritual of pointing fingers

At the people who used to be neighbors?

Besides waiting for the other side

To fail so we can shout

I told you so

From our crumbling rooftop?

We pledge allegiance

With different definitions

Of liberty,

And pray to the same God

Through different microphones.

We chant “one nation under”

While looking down 

On the half we’ve disowned.

We speak different languages now,

Though the words are the same.

“Freedom” in one mouth

Means “tyranny” in another.

“Justice” becomes a code word

For which team you cheer for.

We vote like pulling triggers.

We govern like hostage-takers.

We watch the other side burn

And call it proof of our righteousness.

Someone once said

The left and right wing

Are on the same bird.

But watch us now

Sawing the body in half,

And expecting it still to fly.

The “United” States

Is a contradiction carved in marble,

A flag stitched with fifty pieces

We no longer trust

To touch each other.

A republic of shouting rooms,

A union in name only,

Where every compromise

Is painted as betrayal.

Polarization isn’t politics.

It’s demolition. 

It’s neighbors who can’t share fences,

Families who can’t share tables,

Leaders who mistake

Division for strength.

And yet

What if unity

Isn’t sameness?

What if it’s the brutal work

Of stitching wounds shut

Before they become scars?

What if America remembered

That it was never a purity test,

But a fragile pact

To keep showing up,

To stay stitched together

Long enough

To fly?