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Is anyone anywhere happy?

Sylvia Plath

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Sylvia Plath
Age: 30 †
Born: 1932
Born: October 27
Died: 1963
Died: February 11
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Victoria Lucas
Sylvia Plath Hughes
Happy
Anywhere
Anyone
Happiness

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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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Sunday-the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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