“The blood jet is poetry, There is no stopping it. --from "Kindness", written 1 February 1963” — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
Cold glass, how you insert yourself Between myself and myself. I scratch like a cat. The blood that runs is dark fruit-… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self - -… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.” — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
... These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. ... --Lady Lazarus — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
Sure, I’m dramatic and sloppily semi-cynical and semi-sentimental. But, in leisure years I could grow and choose my way. Now I am living on… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“I couldn't stand the idea of a woman having to have a single pure life and a man being able to have a double… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it. I was not cold. Had a ghost passed over? No,… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“The city had faded my tan, though. I looked yellow as a Chinaman. Ordinarily, I would have been nervous about my dress and my… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“I have stitched life into me like a rare organ --from "Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices", written 1962” — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
