Ophelia Doesn't Know How Good She Had It

A Poem by Arianna Woods

"You'll be fine. But if you die, I'll get you pretty flowers and write you a beautiful epitaph" -Kris Dewberry

I step out of the shower
Not even bothering to grab a towel,
And walk, completely naked,
From the bathroom to my bedroom.

I shut the door.

I pause mid-step to smell the shirt he left here.

I reckon this must be the twentieth
Time I've slept with him
The fan outside the closed door seems to
Second this thought, tick-tick-ticking
Before flinging itself to the carpet in frustration.

I dry off my dripping s(k)in
And pull the shirt over my head
Hoping he'll call me later, for once,
Knowing he probably won't.
I idly rake my dirty clothes into a pile
On the edge of my bed,
Recalling the vigor with which he'd
Torn them off me earlier.

I give up on cleaning.
I curl into a ball, restraining tears.
I hear a knock on the door, soft footsteps.
"Come in." No one answers.
I wait.
I get up.
I open the door.

The fan is upright
A single lily lies on top of it.
The note tied to it reads