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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
Gorgeous
Errors
Flesh
Lost

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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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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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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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I think that as far as language goes I'm an American, I'm afraid, my accent is American, my way of talk is an American way of talk, I'm an old-fashioned American. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm in England now and why I'll always stay in England.
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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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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