To live is the rarest thing in the world, most people exist, that is all.
I thought leaving you would be easy,
just walking out the door
but I keep getting pinned against it
with my legs around your waist and it’s like
my lips want you like my lungs want air,
it’s just what they where born to do so
I am sitting at work thinking of you
cutting vegetables in my kitchen
your hair in my shower drain
your fingers on my spine in the morning
while we listen to Muddy Waters, I know
you will never be the one I call home
but the way you talk about poems
like marxists talk of revolution
it makes me want to keep trying.
I’m still looking for reasons to love you.
I’m still looking for proof you love me.
I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am.
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.
I don’t know what kind of girl I am…