I am not an Ophelia. I need no chain of daisies to lead me home, to keep my mind tethered to the solid ground of reality’s bank against the drifting uncertainty of an ebbing river that will supposedly carry me over to the final resting place of my insurmountable grief and burden, symptoms merely of my sex.
I am not Ophelia with vellum eyes closed delicately, purpled from my sorrow, mouth drawn, hands dainty and hair long — and so symbolically important to my identity as XX — fanned out as my halo.
I am not Ophelia. I am not desperate for a Queen Frailty as my surrogate. I will not allow a Polonius to manipulate that which he shuns about me to advance himself. I will not grant a Laertes to remasculate himself via my protection. I will not get myself to a nunnery nor should I feel any need to, so Hamlets of the world step the fuck off.
SIDEBAR: I don’t want your cock in any context but especially not that of Freud.
I am a victim only because you call me one. I am lost only because you tell me my map is incorrect. I am unsure of myself only because you tell me that I should be. I am Ophelia only because you’ve named me so.
I am anchored in my river. I am floating according to my own fancy and I enjoy the sun on my face.
I will not float away and be made to fade from this current because I am stronger willed than any lunar pattern could hope to be.
I am not Ophelia
so stop fucking calling me that.
I am not Ophelia.
And who the fuck are you?
Allison Chayya