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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)

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
First
Suicide
Love
Majors
Major
Lasts
Last
Suicidal
Words
Hospital
Mother
Hospitals
Firsts
Attempt

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Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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The box is only temporary.
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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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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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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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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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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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we walk the plank with strangers.
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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
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I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.
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