Jasmyn Huff

A Candle in the Darkness

Yesterday I drove my son back home
without crying, long past tears, knowing
soon I’ll leave, no more weekend shared
custody, in attempt to flee draconian laws
devised to erase and replace me with masks
I wore but never wanted. He doesn’t know
why I jump at every knock shattering
silence, but my edginess seeps into him
and he knows it’s not right. I try to protect
him, make sure he has a safe home
to return.
 
Home sounds safe, warm, the om
a blanket around the me lying in bed
the H out front guarding the entrance
ensuring I drift into candlelit dreams
of love and care, fantasies of my mind
lit by acetylene lies dancing shadows
against pretend walls of a nonexistent
house. Home lies at the corner of death
and life, permeable and impermanent
eager to evict me from the premises
and claim my existence a lie hoping
I die and my bones justify their lies.
 
My home declared me nonexistent
yesterday, yet I write these words
still, flaunting laws by being trans

 

 

and alive and refusing compliance
concurrently. But perhaps home
never existed except as pretense
and propaganda by perverted old cis
het white men consumed of thoughts
about my genitalia and whom I sleep
with at night, the openings of the H
just wide enough for legally enshrined
hatred to pass
 
                        through and attempt fucking
me, a sex assault, my consent not wanted
or needed and still I shout “no” and “stop”
and reach for a weapon, anything to force
my voice to matter, and the only weapon
within reach happens to be a candle, fire
I can use to burn this Home to the ground.