SYLVIA PLATH WOULD HATE YOU AND FREUD

WOULD LOVE ME. I HAVE TO ADDRESS THE CLICHES

BEFORE THEY BLUNT.

MY BROAD SHOULDERS ARE YOURS REALLY

AND MY WIRE ROD HOT TEMPER IS YOURS REALLY

AND YOUR DEMERIT POINTS ARE REALLY MY CAR CRASHES,

MY PARKING TICKETS. YOUR HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE

IS REALLY MY LOW BLOOD PRESSURE AND YOUR ANXIETY

MEDICATION IS REALLY MY ANTIDEPRESSANTS,

AND YOUR VIOLENT VICTIMISED CHILDHOOD IS

REALLY MY PASSIVE PUSHOVER CHILDHOOD.

I COULD GO ON, BUT I NEED A FULL STOP

BEFORE I OVERSPILL. BEFORE I REMEMBER YOUR

READING GLASSES AND YOUR TECHNOLOGY

BLINDNESS. GUILT WILL BLEED FROM EVERY WOUND YOU INFLICTED;

I WILL LAP AT IT LIKE A DUMB DOG. LIKE A BITCH.

REMEMBER WHEN YOU CALLED ME THAT.

YOUR PRONUNCIATION WAS OFF,

THE ‘I’ DRAGGED OUT, THE ‘B’ TOO SOFT.

OR PERHAPS MY EARS WERE NOT ATTUNED,

YOUR VOICE SOAKED IN VENOM. I WAS TEN STEPS

FROM THE FRONT DOOR, BAGS SLIDING OFF MY SHOULDERS

BEFORE I REALISED WHAT YOU MEANT.

A THUMP ON MY BACKBONE. WORSE THAN

ALL THE BACKHANDS OF MY YOUNGER YEARS.

I SHOULD HAVE MARKED THE TIME. I BECAME BUT A WOMAN

YOU HATE, ONE OF THE MANY WOMEN YOU HATE.

I NEED TO SAY EVERYTHING SHORT AND SIMPLE

SO THAT YOU CAN UNDERSTAND MY ENGLISH.

I AM SICK. I HAVE NOT SLEPT IN THREE YEARS.

I WANT YOU TO BE PROUD OF ME AND I

NEVER WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN.

THIS IS FUTILE PROSE. YOU WILL NEVER READ THIS.

YOU WANTED ME TO WRITE SOMETHING ABOUT ASSYRIA.

I KNOW VERY LITTLE, AND THIS IS ALL I CAN GIVE YOU.

BUT I KNOW, YOU KNOW,

I CAN SAY EVERY MEAN THOUGHT IN MY HEAD

BUT HERE I AM:

FILLING IN THE BRUTE BRUTE BOOTS

OF A BRUTE LIKE YOU.