Oh, Beautiful Child

Behind that mirror

Oh, my lovely, beautiful child, inside that body with wrinkles and scars —

You look in the mirror and wonder how that could be you on these days when you still feel that scared little girl stirring and squirming inside of you.

And you hear her cry in the back of your mind as you put on your face and perfect your voice for another day of, “I’m fine. I’m just fine.”

But you’re not fine. You’re walking the line and it’s stretching thinner, and all you really want is for someone to tell you that you’re not crazy — that it was real ; it really happened — and it’s okay to mourn the loss of something sacred, when you never said you’d give it away.

You don’t need permission, sweet one, to say you were hurt — to say it still hurts. You don’t need the Why, the Where, the Who, to make it valid.

I know your pain is real. Just because you see those wrinkles — I know there is a child in there, and it’s okay if you need to cry like a baby. I’ll cry with you, Love, because I know.