By Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm
The trauma of my childhood comes uninvited, crept up through the unwelcomed tears.
Facing death is more doable than the darkness of my past.
I forget I am as much Vietnamese as I am Australian.
The therapist within me is just as much a victim of war and oppression. I am only strong because of my family.
I have allowed myself the choice to cry, I have allowed myself the acknowledgement of my sad pathetic pitiful poetic existence.
I have tried to delete the undeletable memories. But, I am not me without it.
I want to leave, leave this place full of roses pungent with the scent of sweat.
But I love, and I love still.