It is a terrible thing to be so open: it is as if my heart put on a face and walked into… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I am sending back the key that let me into bluebeard's study; because he would make love to me I am sending… — 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
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love? — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
... you looked around and saw everybody either married or busy and happy and thinking and being creative, and you felt scared,… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart? — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
My thoughts are crabbed and sallow, My tears like vinegar, Or the bitter blinking yellow Of an acetic star. Tonight the caustic… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. Clouds… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium. — 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
“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
