allusions to Sylvia Plath
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There’s a name for whatever this is—
You call it a beautiful agony because you’ve got a lot to lose
I call it a chaotic chemistry to maintain my flow
It was an off-day for you
To my father—
I addressed this with “to,”
Because “dear” felt wrong.
It’s hard to call someone “dear”
With a history like ours.
I wonder if we were all born with the same capacity to be happy
If we wake up one morning and decide
that happiness is for chumps and I, my friend, am no chump
If the sun rises for the just as well as those less fortunate
Maybe I'll end up like Sylvia Plath;
carbon monoxide halting my respiration, two children asleep in their beds protected by scraps of sopping fabric under their doors.
I write because I'm in love.
I am in love.
I repeat it to myself daily,
An ecstasy of Romantic caliber,
A revelry of Classical Dionysian cultics.
