Ophelia

The self-destructive woman An archetype I know Too well to meet again I would not touch her Whilst holding my heart For she may distract me With her mysterious beauty And borrow it for years I do not have to spare I can almost see it Another twist of her wrist And I am bleeding again Not from my current body But from the piece of me That she clutches, not holds In those hands she would once Blemish herself with, she now Has decided to venture Beyond what she is familiar with And so I stay here, across from What I would call her lair Safe in my own what-ifs