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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.

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
Depression
Wanting
Illness
Keep
Back
Crawl
Womb

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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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I do not know who I am tonight.
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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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Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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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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I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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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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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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