I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
Sylvia PlathLove set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
Sylvia Plath