I Wrote This Instead of Screaming

Flowers on the floor, sequins in the stream. 
They sell the drowning girl as everybody's dream.
The velvet curtains draw, tragedy rehearsed. 
Pretty when she's silent, perfect when it hurts. 

Turn the tragedy to treasure.
Make my breakdown glitter gold.
Clap for beauty in the wreckage. 
Watch me shatter, strike a pose. 

Curtains fall in velvet, cameras catch the pain.
They crown her in the wreckage, profit from her name.
This is the fate of Ophelia. 
Applause for the drowning, roses for the grave. 

Whispers in the hallway, poison in the prose.
They script her slow collapse in designer clothes. 
Floodlights on the funeral, ratings through the roof.
They build a masterpiece with pretty, ruined girls. 

Lace the trauma with mascara.
Paint my sorrow porcelain. 
Drown me in your sympathy,
Then sell my soul again. 

Curtains fall in velvet, cameras catch the pain.
They crown her in the wreckage, profit from her name.
This is the fate of Ophelia. 
Applause for the drowning, roses for the grave. 

She was born to bleed in beauty.
Scripted lines and silent screams. 
Held her breath for one more photo,
Now she sleeps inside the screen. 

Curtains fall in velvet, cameras catch the pain.
A headline for the heartbreak, a gown to hide the shame.
This is the fate of Ophelia.
A shrine for the shattered, roses for the grave. 

Roses for the grave. 
Roses for the grave.