Fingers always curled into fists, ready for a fight, ready to kill. YOU ARE HOME, ARE SAFE, MY LOVE, you whisper to me: YOU ARE NO LONGER AT WAR. My clothing is armour. My smile is my war-paint. (Will I ever be at peace? Will I ever stop being at war?) Hold me close. Calm my soul with a lullaby. (YOU ARE HOME, YOU ARE SAFE. YOU DO NOT NEED TO BE AFRAID.) I will always be at war, I think: Every step is to the beat of a drum. Our house is a battle-ground; I was raised a fighter. I was raised a warrior. YOU CAN STOP FIGHTING, you say. I have been fighting since I was a child: I do not know who I am without a war. I do not know who I am when peace is here. YOU ARE NO LONGER A SOLDIER: LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS. But I cannot; my mother left me no choice but to fight. My father did not come to my aid. I have become my own battle ground. I cannot lay down my arms, for they have become part of me.
The war is over, but I have been fighting for too long to know what peace is. (CNS)















