So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the blue-silver of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh-fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever.
Sylvia PlathWhen I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.
Sylvia PlathThat afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.
Sylvia PlathI inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll's body. Sickness begins here; I am a dartboard for witches.
Sylvia Plath