The woman is perfected.
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
—Sylvia Plath, 1963
what a waste, I could have been your lover.
I’m sorry, I’m awful, I’ve just felt so terribly destructive all week. It’s awful. I’m horrible.
God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of ‘parties’ with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter—they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you for so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment, and companionship—but the loneliness of the soul in it’s appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering.
15 minutes with you, I wouldn’t say no.
summer in the city, I’m so lonely, lonely, lonely.