Coming Home to Me

misst

The ink is dry, the signal’s gone,
The heavy air begins to clear.
A quiet battle has been won
Against the weight of shame and fear.
For years you carried every word,
The sharp critiques, the glass, the smell,
A voice that begged to be preferred,
While yours was locked within a cell.
But “sorry” is a hollow sound
When habits never seem to shift,
And now your feet are on the ground,
Accepting freedom as a gift.
You aren’t “the big one” or the “shamed,”
You aren’t a target for his tongue;
You are a woman, yet untamed,
With half your songs as yet unsung.
The space you’ve cleared is wide and deep,
A garden for the things you’ll grow,
With promises you meant to keep
To a girl you lost so long ago.
So walk the miles and fill the page,
And let the strength return to bone.
There’s beauty in this middle age,
In standing tall, and on your own.
The door is shut, the letter’s sent,
The ghost of him is in the past;
This isn’t just a life’s descent,
It’s coming home to me, at last.