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Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?

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
Men
Pins
Slaughter
Purple
Mass
Enemy
Individual
Arbitrarily
Someone
Murdering
Heart
Labeled

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I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.
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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.
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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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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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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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