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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.
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Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 11:12 PM UTC
bellie-boo
Letters Beneath the Mirrored Sea
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.
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