My Hidden Lives // Prose

53. life inside the bell jar (about sylvia)

 Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

 Wherever I sat - on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok - I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air .

Wherever I sat – on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok – I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air .

I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes.

I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,
Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes.

(all quotes by the amazing Sylvia Plath)

*

Sylvia and Ted make love on my bookshelf.
Knowingly, you say –
„Pray, put those dreams away.“
Unwillingly, I stay.

This is a dream my poem dreamed
But really, you and little me –
We were not as perfect as we seemed.

„Put those dreams away,“ you said,
A year ago.
I put them in a box, and still they grow.

The dreams, they multiply.
Outside our love, of me, of time.
I place a book beside a book,
And find a rhyme.

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