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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.

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
Sleeps
Terrified
Sleep
Dark
Thing

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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.
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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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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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I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
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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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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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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?
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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.
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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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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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