I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals
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I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
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The blood jet is poetry,
There is no stopping it.
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The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
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 anymore.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll’s body.
Sickness begins here: I am the dartboard for witches.
Only the devil can eat the devil out.
In the month of red leaves I climb to a bed of fire.