Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.
Sylvia PlathSome pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
Sylvia PlathWhy canโt I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
Sylvia PlathThe 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.
Sylvia Plath