New York City, I know that I have become more distant from you in the recent years but thank you for being my home since I was just a stoop kid in Brooklyn. I’ve been raised by the diversity engraved into your brownstones and mourned over the slow years of your unwilling prostitution to people who could only utter Williamsburg through a green straw. l’ve experienced my first panic attack within your veins running underground and for too long since then, your unforgiving pace has kicked seeds of worry into my being, planting trees inside of a slender brownstone. But this last month, fortunately, I have been alone enough to hear the silent percussion of hope that still lingers on when banished natives forced to become foreigners, slowly return home, and hand me scissors in unity. I leave my panic and worry with you Brooklyn. Press it hard into the pavement to become black circles we think are simply natural to concrete in the jungle. Press it deep, to color the subway platform for children to make a game out of. I bid you adieu my love, and leave that brownstone in your name. Be proud of me as I take your essence with my head held high and hair twice as much with me around the world. Adieu my lover.