You’re not the origin
you’re addicted to leaving
and the old souls hold close their
broken things; clear glass,
porcelain and knickknacks
-s's.
Sylvia Plath, from a letter to Aurelia Plath written c. August 1951
While the wind carries the harsh fumes
to my mind, a stubborn message
and stubborn pride, I have
nobody to talk to about
all of this
it's nothing more, a hit or miss
starve my eyes before they cry
year after year they were in a war
delicate dark and black, give me no time to look back
-s's.
dreamy potion of an electric ghost beckon back the forbidden souls
-s's.
As I am,
I see through a golden space
I'm trapped in amber sap,
Onto the outside I look
Within the inside I am firm
Fossilized, undiscerned
-s's.
-s's.
calm me down, drown me in a distant ocean that never gets discovered Deep dark blankets, blue and far and wise and sad Troubled by the mystery of people on land
-s’s.
the way the light scatters to create The perfect pattern of me, a rainbow of deceit impressive shine, obsessive guilt
-s's.
little scenes and pieces of the
audio visual cool girl
scatter into the screen
with hues of purple light blinding her machines
paths and documents and crowds and rejections
brilliantly laid out, a world of nonfiction
will she ever surmount to the crazy idle teen
but I know most times it never hurts for her to try, however alone she might be
-s's.
you should know by now what a liar i can be, with two fingers crossed and whispering to you goodnight and sweet dreams, while i resist sleep in favor of picturing what tomorrow's abrupt entrance may bring—
what strength the dusty wind will blow with, what color of light the radiant sun will shine, what striking songs the birds will choose to sing,
or whether this heaviness will still weigh my life's sins on my heart and my mind,
and, maybe, what words from you will greet, from behind a waking veil, these still-sleepy morn eyes;