ophelia

Sometimes I feel like Ophelia. I'm standing in the middle of the promenade. Im counting flowers out to the rhythm of lullaby's gone by. I'm wishing the violets in my mind hadn't withered and died. The flames are licking at my skin, which is threatening to fall away like the skin of the ripest fruit. I'm trying to get people to listen to me, but the words come out backwards. And with this infinite amount of reason and god like judgment I'll lean against the railing and scream my song for the court to hear.


I wonder if anyone would fight at my funeral. Would the leaves crunch under you as you strangled the one that I gave orchids to? I can hear the heavy breathing of you against my back. I can feel the hands against my skin. Cold and metallic, grasping at my flesh and pulling me backwards into the wet dirt of my home. My home with the granite headstone. The acid rain will erode my name soon and the ivy's will call the sarcophagus their home.


There's silence in the water. Thick, inky silence.

Let me drown in this silence

And watch my flames burn the surface of your quiet contributions.