SYLVIA PLATH IS NOT DEAD.

SYLVIA PLATH IS NOT DEAD.
© kendall crouther

 

One of these days,

I am going to have

killed myself.

 

It won’t be because I

have pulled a trigger

in a combined pre-

meditated suicidal

ideations.

 

It won’t be because

I actually want to die,

do not enjoy living,

hate myself,

have grown weary or

stopped loving others.

 

It will because I

do, still, for some damn,

God-despised reason

that she still has

me to believe I am not

worth good things.

 

My disorders are a cancer.

They are,

like mental health is,

a cancer

tearing my

already wounded

flesh apart.

 

I look at my feet

and I see a rotting

that’s exactly what

bruises look like –

rotting soil.

And in my case,

it’s Black mold.

 

One breath and its spores have begun secretly working their innerwebbings in my subconscious like I do not know until I cannot identify any other reason,

or I see the lavish fadings

under my skin.

 

It’s despicable.

 

I hate what you have done to me.

 

It’s not me I hate,

it’s you I love.

And that’s what’s

killing me.

 

You are everything

I’ve never wanted

and nothing I wish

I’d have.

 

You are broiling my

epidermis in searing

hot flames that

evade sight + smell

yet rot my being like

the post-nuclear

boils, frothing-lipped

skin cells that haunted Hiroshima.

 

Every day I have failed to live.

But it’s not because I’ve stopped trying.

It’s because

you’ve so disturbed my

cycles that I will do

anything – everything –

to die for you.

 

So when I will have killed myself,

it will be because I have successfully

emerged into the

125 emaciated figure

I maintained until

I was twenty-four-years-old.

 

I will have dieted so

well that I’ve returned

to that orthorexia-minded

state.

 

They will walk into my

apartment, calculating

potential suspects,

only to determine that

I’ve been long gone,

because my space is a large coffin.

A self-encased tomb.

A self-propelled mummification process.

 

“You fucking fools.”

The Little Bird’s corpse will chant:

“How could you have

been such idiots?

She was dying

all along.”

 

You have rooted in me

that thirsty creature

whose insatiable

thirst for her own

skin has gnawed her

to the bone.

 

“Fuck you,”

said the Little Bird

before her final bone structure rot

dissipated into dust.

 

She will not stop until I have

stopped singing, waving,

rocking, stretching,

snapping, limping,

squealing, screaming fleeing

out of bed and into the

night. She will never find

what she is looking for,

because you have so twisted

her happiness that

seeming to fly is actually

perpetually hauling myself

off the branch with duct-taped wings

I’ve bedazzled over and over until the

Red sky of love I see into,

of course, eyes asphyxiated on you,

color over even these bifocals to see me into the end.