For You, The Survivor.

My darling, Be gentle with yourself. Your hurts are already bruising, You do not need to draw blood.

Offer yourself the kindness You have been saving for others; Know that you are built For tenderness;

You are not a stone-walled fort To withstand a siege of swords; You are not a deep ravine With no way out.

My darling, love yourself. Offer yourself unto yourself In the temple of your spirit; You are your own redeemer.

Do not forget the depths of the soul And that all the answers Are a garden growing in yours.

Know you are a warm being And that sooner or later we, Like moths to a flame, will all Be drawn into your orbit;

My darling, Know that you are loved And that even the universe has Spent fourteen billion years Waiting to meet you;

Do not grieve over goodbyes Because it is a blessing Simply to have known you - You, who like a small candle Have given meaning, However brief, to the lives Of others;

Know that though you are strong You were not made invulnerable; You are not a fortress, so Hold fast against the storms and Dig your heels into the ground.

When it is over gather yourself And clean out the cuts; Know your first-aid and administer it. Know that you have done it before And that you can do it again, my darling;

Know that you cry because you are alive And that it tastes so damn sweet When you can finally face yourself And say the words: ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’

This is what love looks like

You love the only way you know how- In extremes - saying either too much Or nothing at all. You have never apologised To anyone for anything. You never say the words: ‘I love you’ When a cool glass of water will suffice. People are starting to suspect That you are not of this world. People are starting to suspect That you rode in on a comet. You will never tell them How you still check the dark for monsters; How you still find them reflected in mirrors; How very much like your father The monsters in you have become. You love the only way you know how - Painfully - because you know love Feels like ripping off a bandaid; Sounds like heavy footsteps and Slamming doors; smells like booze; Looks like the underside of your bed. You know that most nights monsters live At the bottom of a bottle and sleep Next to your mother in the room across the hall. Love is something you have learned to hide from. Your father taught you long ago That love is something to be feared. He taught you that if you’re not hurting, You’re not doing it right.

Assimilation

There’s a war going on So we move to America. We aren’t refugees. We aren’t the persecuted. We’re just trying to Make it in the world. I want to go to school And become an artist. I want to take a bus Without worrying about Being blown up by a Terrorist. Standard stuff; The stuff you’d want.

My sister assimilates well. Her accent picks up an American ‘twang’. We leave behind our Kurthas and saris With little ceremony. My sister goes to school And eats peanut butter sandwiches. On Halloween she goes trick-or-treating And starts calling 'sweets’ 'candy’; 'Petrol’ becomes 'gas’; 'Biscuits’ are now 'cookies’; 'Aney’ starts to feel like a foreign word.

“Your English is so good!” say those nice, Distant, suburban white folk. “Thanks,” we reply, “It’s our first language. Colonialism and all that.” Suddenly they have nothing to say. They’ve never had to think about that. It makes them uncomfortable That we make it all so Tangible.

There are no the kadés here; no rottis; No pol-sambol-and-parippu. The summer fades into something grey And we are fading with it. I start speaking to myself In Sinhalese. I feel like a fraud. I feel like I am losing myself.

Meanwhile I am trying to get a job But nobody wants to hire A little brown girl. I tell them I have a law degree. They ask me if I have “American Experience™”. In the end I have to volunteer At a charity shop. No pay. I am losing money. My mother can’t understand Why I am not employable. This was never a problem back home. She is convinced it is my fault.

I am falling deeper into depression. I have no friends. All the pretty white girls Look at me like I’m something curious And do not dare approach. I start to wonder if it would help If I acted more like them.

I can’t get used to How quiet this place is. Nobody talks to anybody else. There are no shops with Their doors flung open; Regulars lounging on stools; No loud vendors selling snacks; Just hollow clerks in Air conditioned malls Who ask you how you’re doing And on the in-breath, Pray you won’t respond. Everyone is just trying to get by. They have no time for anything else.

There are no animals on the streets. There are no animals anywhere Except for perfect squirrels And toy dogs on leashes. People pick up their shit And wrap it in little bags. White people are crazy.

I can’t get used to the Absence of sound. On my bed, I listen closely To the silence, trying to Understand. The silence is like a Thick fog. I start to police The volume of my Breath.

I wake up in the morning Wishing it were night. I wake up wishing that I could sleep forever.

Outside, it is raining. All those perfect little houses In neat little rows Blur in the haze. I close my eyes and pretend That the hum of wind Is the sound of the ocean. I am told this is the American Dream. I try to remember what the sun feels like.