You wrote a story about a girl in the stream, with flowers in her hair like a midsummer dream. But you forgot that the water can be cold, and some stories deserve to be retold. I saw the willow tree leaning so low, watching the current, watching the flow. And they call it a tragedy, they call it a fall, but she wasn’t waiting for a hero at all. Oh, the river didn’t take her, it washed her clean, from the ghost of a king and a world so mean. She’s not a shadow, she’s not a ghost. She’s the one who survived when she needed it most. The fate of Ophelia was just the beginning, in a game where the broken are finally winning. Now she’s walking through the meadows in a different dress, no more "Lord Hamlet", no more "Yes, princess". She gathered the violets and the rosemary too, but this time, darling, they weren't for you. Sometimes you have to sink to learn how to swim. Sometimes the light only starts where it's dim. She’s breathing, she’s breathing, she’s breathing now. She took the crown from her own pale brow! Oh, the river didn’t take her, it washed her clean, from the ghost of a king and a world so mean. She’s not a shadow, she’s not a ghost, she’s the one who survived when she needed it most. The water is still... She’s standing on the shore... She’s not drowning anymore.
