Their eyes and their hands snatched up little pieces of you until there was nothing left.
Did it hurt, Ophelia, when they told you that you weren’t pure? As if purity means anything at all. Did it hurt, did it sting, that your corruption was pure? They didn’t care. You know they didn’t love you. Ophelia, they thought, chaste and delicate; a beautiful little possession.
Their eyes and their hands snatched up little pieces of you until there was nothing left for them to take. Ophelia, all they saw were lips and breasts, but no voice and no brain. He didn’t need you, no, he wanted you. He wanted to own you. Why, Ophelia, did they try to stifle you? Reduce you to sex? Did your lungs burn when you tried to speak? Did your heart pound as it broke?
They couldn’t see the flowers, darling, because they didn’t want to. A girl with a mind and a girl with brain is doomed from the start. Condemned and revelled, through life and through death.
Your father and your lover watched. Everyone watched. Your mind, sweet angel, dried up and you tried to water it; tried to bring it back to life. Did it feel good? Was it a release? They didn’t kill you, no not at all. You liberated yourself.
You died in a river of cum, and flowers grew from your bones.