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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.

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
Roses
Jealousy
Rose
Blood
Open
Black
Make

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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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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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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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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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O heart, such disorganization!
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but this is no indication of the true worth of one's total human identity: past, present and future!
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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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