im a hostess at a restaurant and my favorite thing to do is ask 14/15 year old boys who are out on dates if they want a kids menu
i love you
Sylvia Plath’s suicide is often transfigured into something romanticised, the personal trauma of suffering from conditions such as hers often becomes swept aside. I hear people declare that they wish they felt the grips of depression believing it is the illness which facilitates such delectable creativity. Unfortunately, in the gloom it is hard enough to shower let alone write.
On the 50th anniversary of her suicide despite an overwhelming amount of media scavenging on the constructed idea of the “tortured artist” it is imperative she is remembered for her sharp talent which produced writing you can submerge yourself in as opposed to being held aloft as merely an emblem.
‘let me live, love and say it well in good sentences’
(n.b the romanticisation of mental health is not cute)