My dearest Sylvia,
what was it like,
I'm sure they all must ask,
to write The Bell Jar,
and become an icon
for all the sad
misused and ill-fated
young pathetiques.
Would that they could place
a microphone to your brain
to leech your brainwaves off
and catch a glimpse
of how it might feel to be you.

I do know how it feels,
to turn around and find a haunted-you
staring back,
to not remember the words you wrote
the night before,
or the pills,
each one a jagged tooth
in a powdery smile,
a tiny compressed prayer
that the darkness might dissipate
at dawn.

I know the smell of magnolias,
and the dead perfume of hyacinths,
emptying their hollowness into
the well of your heart

05/20/2009

Posted on 05/20/2009
Copyright © 2026 Vikki Owens