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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.

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
Feels
Much
Never
Bath
Baths
Feminism
Classic
Hot
Feel

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There was a beautiful time.
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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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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been analyzed. Instead, all I could see were question marks.
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions.
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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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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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