tell me a story, my dear, ill fated lover. my white dress floats in the bath water. i want you to stand next to the tub and tell me about the first time you saw me. you were a prince, and i just a girl. tell me about how you fell in love with my walk and my curled toes and my cinnamon smile. sickening spices. uniquity. grace.
biting my bottom lip, i ask if you will say hello again, blooming.
why is it that you always whisper goodbyes like autumn leaves?
you are catastrophic, and i a mad, young, silly girl. but you used to be perfect and i used to be wise, and our most promising traits are announced to the tides as i pull the drain stopper out. wait! i laugh. i put the stopper back into tub. row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.
i’m wondering as you look at me with those empty eyes.
i wonder, if i know i have gone mad, am i mad after all?
i don’t see it in your eyes, my dear, ill fated lover. i only see death, death, death and love. you used to utter sweet words with warm breath in my ear. i’d dance for you until my back hurt and my heels were sore, until i wanted to cry and laugh, for you were so enthralled by the movements of my body. I don’t dance anymore. and your breath is cold, your words sour.
the tub overflows and i shut my eyes, although they beg to see.
will i laugh when you scream my name, saying you can’t swim?
ophelia version two
