Sivvy

[NOTE: Each line of this poem is a scrap from Sylvia Plath’s journals.]

I cannot be a man
I cry at everything
I have no imagination
What do I do

I am jealous of men
No god but the sun
The Panic Bird on my heart
Ugh, I gag to think of it

How ghastly
The grumpy fruitless cramps
I am bloody bloody bloody
I may have a baby someday

Who am I angry at
Men, nasty lousy men
I should be the world’s whore
But I am not

© Michelle R. Smith 2003-2009