Dear Bellamy, I'm lost at sea.
Everything I step by is swallowed by the ceaseless stream of my mind,
I don't know where I'm racing to,
I'll plausibly settle when this scent of death ends chasing me.
Will it be far? I'm tired.
Dear Bellamy, my dad used to call me his tiny gem.
I'm worried he might be right,
I'm acute, cold and permanently tinted of this dim scarlet.
I must be a ruby, yet I'm no precious, polished or sparkling ;
My surface is dyed with this red, and I'm dull
No matter how hard I scrub…
it doesn't go away, it doesn't go away…will it ever go away?
Dear Bellamy, I'm no princess,
but if you insist I must be Makaria.
Hopefully the death I bring is blessed too...
Why is it so utterly evil when it comes out of your mouth so heavenly?
I'd like an explanation, talk to me.
I ache to catch your voice one last time,
Just a word…a syllable, nothing more, an echo maybe?
I loathe seeing you hushed in my nightmares.
Dear Bellamy,
I am mouldering as they are too.
Prisoner of no wall but the mural I built around myself,
I smell the earth being gripped by the trees.
Their leaves are shivering and their trunk are muggy.
They rumour with each other all day long about me, about you, about us, about what we did.
They take pleasure mocking me, their wood twisting in blurry smirks and judging eyes.
I see them from distance.
But when I'm near them they are silent, strangely still, their roots desperately carving the ground for a better adherence; they are terrified of me
Dear Bellamy,
My biggest fear is to get burnt.
I can't approach any fire without sweaty palms and a heart pumping savagely in my head.
Still, I often find myself tortured by the idea of touching those hypnotising jewels climbing high in the wanly sky.
Velvet, gold and royal blue crippling waves,
As dangerous as the sea,
As torrid as your tanned skin,
As wild as the fear they inspire me.
Dear Bellamy,
There's this boy that I like,
He's fair, he's bright.
He's pastel gold, he's obscure coal.
He's glass and gem,
half here and half hidden.
His voice sets chaos and his laugh, redemption.
His touch is cosmos and his presence; my combustion.
Dear Bellamy, I'm sorry for leaving,
I need you…
but I'm so polluted deep inside;
I think my ribcage just broke of this stinging corruption.
What hit my heart so piercingly then, if it wasn't a rib?
I miss home, I miss you so much.
Clarke