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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.

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
Upright
Sky
Among
Leans

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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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It was sometime in October she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself the girl who wanted to be God. Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.
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Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.
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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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