MODERN HAMLET ♚ OPHELIA 

“I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.”

he knows that her legacy will be the resounding echo of water dripping from the faucet, soggy cigarettes, and the ladies whispering poor ophelia, poor ophelia, poor ophelia.

poor ophelia, who drowned in newspaper clippings and dead roses, scrawled his name across the wall over and over again until she forgot her own.

poor ophelia who used to lay across his bed sheets like skeleton bones, collecting the parts of him that died in that bathtub, eyes staring at nothing like she used to stare at him.

poor ophelia, Hamlet whispers to himself, all whiskey-washed hair and bloody lips. poor ophelia, poor ophelia, poor ophelia. I know what it feels like to be a ghost.