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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.

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
Errors
Flesh
Lost
Gorgeous

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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
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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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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God — or the universal woman-and-man — or anything much. I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea that I could justify my being alive that way.
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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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I collect men with interesting names.
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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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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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How we need another soul to cling to.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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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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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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