Ophelia's Mistakes

I see people,

People intoxicated by the pictures and paintings of Ophelia's

Flowery death.

Her death image gives them aesthetic pleasure,

As controlled women always gave them.

Her hairs afloat, start to sleep on to the water,

Flowers shrouding her body,

Eyes open to a world of her own,

Singing songs of despair.

But little did she realize the danger,

The danger of clinging on to a hopeless end,

Like the bough that broke beneath her.

She was beneath the procrastinated love,

That demanded her to leave for a nunnery,

Where she could have grown out of love,

Leaving a dull yet moving life in her,

Under the orders of others.

Little did she understand the fleeting

Feelings inside men,

The constant tribulations of mind,

That demand their essence and

Drink off the sanity.

She mistook the words and its soul,

She made her life revolve around one improper love,

She didn't realize the wonders in life beyond romantic love,

Or no one helped her.

Deaths made her mourn,

It took over her fragile mind,

Making garlands of wildflowers,

Climbing into a willow tree,

She left her soul in the tree

And made her body floating in the water,

To be the talk of the country,

To teach young girls of love and chained lives.

Yet her silk garments trapped air to stay afloat,

But her body decided to sink,

Deep down,

Turning herself an image for

Fighter of dignity,

And a symbol of women lost in social chains.

Oh, Ophelia, these are your mistakes.

A. C

Comments

Murmurings of Married Women

I hear murmurings from the graveyard In the West of the town, Of married women, Dead and disappeared years ago. I wonder what a time they had, What a life they lived. Their husbands weep and weep and forget them, They praise how they looked after their women, Covering in glittery gold, Buying them silly silks, Giving makeup for a make-over. But still, the women murmur, Their voices seem to break the edges of tombs. They force the sun to dry out the flowers on them quickly. I lowered my face and listened to the tombs, It seems their lipstick was revolting, Their eyelashes lifted to show the desperation. They talk about the lies they had to live through, In fear of strangers' pointing fingers on getting a hint on their unhappy marriages. They call out their abusive partners, Told me to look for the broken bangles behind the kitchen for proof, The blood-stained clo...

A Call for One More Summer Swim

Dear Oliver, Last summer was not only about freshly smelling grass and ripened peaches to me, it became something more than that because of you. Your arrival to help my father taught me lessons for a lifetime. It was you who gave meaning to my summer, to my days and its absurdities. When I first saw you, little did I realise that you are going to unravel the real Elio, an Elio who was so much in love. An Elio who was so confused at the choices of his love and who showed the courage to confront it no matter what. I remember when you whispered to me "Call me by your name and I'll call you by mine", the time when I felt as if the four lettered word Elio pouring out from your mouth is all I wanted to listen to in this entire universe. But sometimes life offers us a different path, away from what we actually want. I still remember the fun we had at Bergamo, the way you kissed me secretly pressing against the walls, never did I experience that feeling ever again. Bec...

Most Nights We are Alone

Most nights we are alone, Trying to form a shape, Wrecking with the pain of a bleeding heart, In desperation to flatten the lump formed in the throat, Trying to keep it as calm as possible Not to wake our partners beside us. Most nights we are alone, Clenching onto pillows, Playing loud music, Pretending sleep, While we writhe in pain. Most nights we are alone, Thinking of faces that promised company, Faces of people we assumed would hug us, Hands that we thought would caress us, And talks that we registered would soothe us. Most nights we are alone, Peeling off our gender, Searching for an identity, Making sense of our essence, Organizing our anger, Revolting against the structure, Living past the breaking point, Storming a mysterious body. Most nights we are alone, Cursing the dreams we believed, Blaming the instincts that spurred...

THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

Search This Blog