A home doesn’t exist

Without at least two strong hands,

Shown by knuckles on my fists—

Ashen, opaque, like charred lands.

I remind myself again,

That resilience masks as scars;

While splitting another unbroken amen,

Pretending to puff a faux cigar.

Like a man—

But I am a woman.

My pride is shackled in solemnity,

Seeking a sordid validation—

Like a long-lost, unfathered Kennedy,

Unveiling their name for salvation.

You cannot vanquish my femininity,

Even though I plummeted Annapurna;

I’ve never trekked upon masculinity—

I’ve only survived within their hiberna.

I have longed for an ivory Chantilly silhouette,

Carved in a dense, porous limestone—

Laced from my single, dismantled bayonet,

Before it hollowly engraves my tombstone.

Kassandra is a mother to two lovely daughters. She has been writing since she could hold a pen, and enjoys writing with vivid imagery.