Letter to Sylvia Plath

July 15, 2013

Soul sister and lover,
in my dreams I kiss your lips and
you cry in my arms while I comfort you
with sweet whispers in your ear
of encouragement.
You turn into a diapered infant
as I rock you to sleep.

My frantic Sylvia,
you are so much more than that.
You are me, but better.
You are bubbles of self-doubt
popped.
You are a metaphor for all life
burdened with an ego.
You are right in your self-hatred.

Oh Sister,
Magic shoots from your ripped pages
spitting fairy dust into my eyes
so that I can hardly see the words
but the words are already in my head
because they are me
and you are the wind blowing the leaves
so that they make a despairing droning sound.

You are the inside of a housewife’s home
so well described in your stories.
You are a feminist’s suppressed truth.
You are badly burned on the inside
so that I’d like to fix you because
we are we, you and me.
Soul flower wilting,
and then flourishing once more.
You are the beat of my heart and
the purr in my scream.

Dear Sylvia,
You are my best friend and a stranger at once.
Inspiration, desperation
you are the painful cracking of leaves
as I walk.
You are the wet tears on a stone near the pond.
You are my fingertips
and my nightmares.

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