Ophelia
My neck snaps like a
gunshot,
with a bang.
I am destroyed, I am undone,
my thighs cracked like
an egg in a skillet,
sizzling, forced
apart –
a snap, a crack, a tear
in the fabric of my universe –
yellow police tape stretched
wide, over miles.
How does it feel to be a
walking crime scene,
everyone who knows asks me
with not so much as words,
but with the pity in their eyes.
How does it feel to have been
buried alive,
the earthworms filling
your lungs
as your ribcage collapses under the
weight?
How does it feel to be all used up,
like a soap dispenser, empty,
meant to cleanse, purify,
but rendered useless?
Dandelions sprout from my mouth
as I lie lifeless in the river afterwards
like sweet Ophelia,
deposed then disposed:
my body,
he left it in the creek
out back, behind the woods,
and the dogs searched and searched,
hunting the scent of victimhood
like his predator nose sniffed out
a weakness,
a chink in the armor,
vulnerability.
But I want to wash myself in survivorship
like a fancy perfume I could never afford,
I want to hold the crystal bottle between my hands,
and squeeze.
And
where were you?
They told me that first time
I emerged from the waters,
reborn,
that I was a beloved daughter
of the king most high,
but if that’s true,
how could he leave a princess of heaven
there to die?
Where were you
when I choked on strands of my
own hair, lumped in my throat,
a hand over my mouth,
a whispered hush?
Ssh, baby, I know
you said you don’t know what you want,
but I can feel you want this,
between your legs,
you want this,
you want this,
you want this –
Baby, we’re the perfect match for tonight,
see how your neck fits so
nicely between my fists?
See how I can turn you into
your childhood ragdoll?
See how you float on the ceiling,
an out of body experience?
What you call trauma, I’ll call bliss.
Isn’t this fun?
I have a decade on you,
there’s so much I can teach you,
so let me on you,
and as I try to show you
this isn’t so bad,
wrap your unwilling arms around me,
I need this moment of tenderness in the violence.
I said don’t look at me
like that, bitch,
don’t you know all women are bitches, bitch,
don’t you know women are prey to be chased and taken, bitch,
I cornered you on the balcony,
a false Romeo to a girl who never wanted to be Juliet,
and I have you in my teeth,
but this is catch and release,
after all… we’re friends, right?
But now I’m kind of nervous
the sound of your pleas might stick
around, haunting my memories.
I said stop crying, bitch,
I said move there, bitch,
if you’re not going to move,
then I’ll make you move.
They told me I was chosen,
and I feel nothing but forsaken
and you can keep your slam score,
because the only number you can put
on a survivor is one in four.
Does the heroine exist only to
further some man’s plot?
Only exist to
die for some man’s pain?
To be used and abused and manipulated
into what the man wants?
Remember how he offered me a
cigarette,
a consolation prize for stolen virginity
and bloodstained bedsheets?
Where were you
when I put it in my mouth
and puffed
as if everything was ok?
I hear the cry of the witches
his forefathers failed to burn.
I’m ready for battle
as they call to me like sisters:
be bloody, bold and resolute,
laughing to scorn the power of man,
for none of woman born
shall harm
me.
Catrice "Reverie" Woodbury is a spoken word artist living in Charlotte, NC. She is 25 years old. She released her debut spoken word album, The Patron Saint of Eating in Bed, in 2018. When she's not writing and performing, she can be found making coffee at a cafe, working with women struggling with substance abuse at a local nonprofit, or participating in Bible study with her friends. Keep up with Reverie on Twitter (@reveriethepoet) or on her website: https://reveriethepoet.wixsite.com/reverie