Letters Beneath the Mirrored Sea
By Bellie-boo
“Far beneath this sea of my own forthcoming,”
I see the little girl inside—
not even three feet tall, yet defiant in her stride.
Sure, she’s a little devil,
but I cannot simply let her be;
her fire, untamed, keeps burning me.
“A Monster. The Saint. A Liar. The Fighter.”
Ah yes, let’s play dress-up—a game of desire.
Which mask did I choose, which flame to inspire?
“Always begging for a part to play,”
hoping a role might show the way,
yet none fit right, no script would stay.
“To live as me, To die straight.”
Ah yes, how dramatic I could be—
exploring worlds too vast for me.
“How sweet, little one; I cannot let you be.”
“Black roses erode,” you whisper low;
what beauty, to watch the dark bloom go.
Like marble softening into bone,
you surprise me, child, with what you’ve shown—
a quiet strength I never thought my own.
“Send me a postcard.”
I always liked a plan—
knowing what to do and where to stand.
I’m sorry, little one; there’s no shortcut,
no turn-around, no skipping the fight—
some sad things can’t be unlived or made right.
“To be killing me / to be / what I / want to / be.”
Little one, breathe—your fire burns bright in me;
no cage of fear, just possibility.
“I’m ready to take your hand too.”
Your courage hums—a steady ring;
sometimes I wonder which of us learned to sing.
“Oh little one, your voice is the key,
to unlocking the love once lost in me;
every spark you give remakes what could be.”
“What if I said I loved you?”
I’d say I love you too—
though I know belief still hides from view.
“Because the you I see in the mirror,
I have not always treated with care;
some days, I wasn’t even there.”
“Tenderly binding you to me.”
If this reflection’s what I see,
then I’d kiss the glass—set both of us free.
“Thank You for Sending Me a Postcard.”
Signed—
the self who learned to stay, not guard.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 11:12 PM UTC
Letters Beneath the Mirrored Sea
By Bellie-boo
“Far beneath this sea of my own forthcoming,”
I see the little girl inside—
not even three feet tall, yet defiant in her stride.
Sure, she’s a little devil,
but I cannot simply let her be;
her fire, untamed, keeps burning me.
“A Monster. The Saint. A Liar. The Fighter.”
Ah yes, let’s play dress-up—a game of desire.
Which mask did I choose, which flame to inspire?
“Always begging for a part to play,”
hoping a role might show the way,
yet none fit right, no script would stay.
“To live as me, To die straight.”
Ah yes, how dramatic I could be—
exploring worlds too vast for me.
“How sweet, little one; I cannot let you be.”
“Black roses erode,” you whisper low;
what beauty, to watch the dark bloom go.
Like marble softening into bone,
you surprise me, child, with what you’ve shown—
a quiet strength I never thought my own.
“Send me a postcard.”
I always liked a plan—
knowing what to do and where to stand.
I’m sorry, little one; there’s no shortcut,
no turn-around, no skipping the fight—
some sad things can’t be unlived or made right.
“To be killing me / to be / what I / want to / be.”
Little one, breathe—your fire burns bright in me;
no cage of fear, just possibility.
“I’m ready to take your hand too.”
Your courage hums—a steady ring;
sometimes I wonder which of us learned to sing.
“Oh little one, your voice is the key,
to unlocking the love once lost in me;
every spark you give remakes what could be.”
“What if I said I loved you?”
I’d say I love you too—
though I know belief still hides from view.
“Because the you I see in the mirror,
I have not always treated with care;
some days, I wasn’t even there.”
“Tenderly binding you to me.”
If this reflection’s what I see,
then I’d kiss the glass—set both of us free.
“Thank You for Sending Me a Postcard.”
Signed—
the self who learned to stay, not guard.
Letters to the Mirrored Sea is a conversation between who I was and who I’ve become. It’s written like a renga, a poetic dialogue where the younger me speaks in the indented lines and the older me replies. The lines in "" are titles, lines, and phrases from my poems over ten years ago, the lines without "" are the me from a couple months rereading said poems. I wanted it to feel like looking into water and seeing both versions at once, the fire and defiance of the child and the quieter, steadier love of the adult. It’s about learning to listen instead of fix, to hold the mirror without judgment, and to realize that healing isn’t about becoming someone new, but coming home to the one who’s been waiting underneath all along.
