We are the same, my sister.
Pretty Ophelia, like you I flew to the forest,
weeping and wandering, stained and struggling, weak
and wondering why my own thoughts haunt and hate me so,
thoughts more fierce and unfailing than the bitterest of foes.
I stumbled through the thickets of indifference,
of dead and dying dreams,
my hair and eyes and body torn,
trailing hopes and hollowness,
fears and tears and pity
and the broken names of those who have hurt me.
But where you strewed flowers, pretty Ophelia,
I had only sticks and stones and blades and bones
and memories of words that wounded deep and well.
These last gifts I gave myself
before the fragile sliver of my sanity's bough
splintered and dropped me senseless
to the dry streambed of dead and crumbling leaves
where I lie still.
The leaves fall slowly under the waning sickle moon
until the last light is blocked from my unseeing eyes,
leaving me to sleep.
Perchance to dream.