Sylvia Plath’s birthday

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies’ bedding and glittering with dead breath.

Five months after she wrote “A Birthday Present,” Sylvia Plath killed herself.

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This entry was posted in Celebrations, festivals, memorials, Death and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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