The Hamlet Project

Has Ophelia ever given anyone any hard words?
She is all down and flowers, all compliance and pliability. She seems to have no rough edges (though surely they’ve just been sanded down to turn a square into a circle.)
She is custard and cream, a thick rice pudding with cinnamon and raisins on top.
She is a throw pillow, a ripe peach, a small nosegay of violets wrapped in ribbon.
Her words are feathers, dandelion seeds floating on a breeze, flour billowing into the air above the sifting, butterflies alighting on leaves, silk on silk sliding.