A Long Way Home Part 2 Poem by Miss Tee

A Long Way Home

I woke this morning,
met the mirror halfway—
and there she was.

A face I have borrowed for years.
Familiar in structure,
foreign in spirit.

I searched her eyes
for recognition.
For a flicker that would say,
You are known here.

But she only stared back—
a girl tracing maps
without a compass,
still looking for her way home.

Home—
not walls or windows,
not a name on a lease—
but arms that open without question.
A presence that understands
without interrogation.
A love that does not flinch
at the weight of her becoming.

Lost deep inside herself,
she dreams of breaking free—
from fears that sit like iron
around her ankles,
from insecurities
that whisper louder than truth.

She yearns.
She craves.
She hungers for what should be—
for alignment between soul and skin.

Her true identity—
concealed.
Layered beneath expectation,
beneath performance,
beneath survival.

Silent tears travel
the familiar curve of her cheek.
Empty of you—
whoever you are—
a heartache blooms
so fierce
it feels fictional.

And still,
to friends and family
she offers warmth.
Loyalty wrapped neatly in laughter.
Affinity stitched into every embrace.

They know her kindness.
They know her reliability.
They do not always know
the storm she swallows
before she speaks.

Beauty, she has learned,
is not in spectacle
but in authenticity—
in the raw, unfiltered truth
of complexity.

She is not lioness nor vixen.
Not fire meant to intimidate.
She is softness.
Shyness.
Indulgent honesty.

A quiet depth
misread as fragility.

I am a long way home,
she thinks—
standing before the glass
where the stranger waits.

Not unreal—
just unfinished.

There was once
a seductive vision of perfection—
polished, hunted, admired.
But like a brittle leaf
it twirled,
whirled,
and surrendered itself to wind.

Now, she waits
for new brushstrokes.

Not ones that disguise—
but ones that reveal.
Color settling into bone.
Lines defining truth
instead of illusion.

She cannot promise
how the shaping will feel.
There may be weeping.
There may be laughter.
There may be curses
thrown toward the sky.

But one stipulation she dares to voice:

Hold my hand.

Not to rescue—
but to remind.

Like roots beneath a tree,
steady me when I sway.
Support without suffocating.
Stand near without demanding.

For one day,
when your mirror feels foreign
and your soul feels far from home—

I will remember this ache.
I will remember this waiting.

And I will stand beside you,
firm as earth,
patient as roots—

Until we both find
that home
was never a place
or a person

—but the courage
to recognize ourselves
in the glass