Sylvia Plath, Why I Killed My Self
I left the kettle hissing,
A blue serpent coiling in the kitchen.
The window’s breath was winter—
It kissed me cold, a mother I never had.
I was a bone in the mouth of the world,
Gnawed down to a pale thought.
The mirror grew teeth—
It ate my face
The room was quiet as paper,
Holding its breath for the pen.
Ink pooled in the corners
Like milk left too long.
The hours no longer spoke—
They only stared,
Thin and pale as candles
Waiting for a match.
My hands folded themselves
As if in prayer,
But the prayer was a stone,
And it would not float.
Some doors open inward,
Others open nowhere.
I found the one
That would not close again.
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