#p: sylvia plath

[mournfulroses]

Sylvia Plath, from a journal entry featured in "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath,"

[funeral]

Sylvia Plath, "Elm"

[sighing-is-a-song]

Happy Pride! Let’s get some things str8

Trans people had nothing to do with the first pride 😁

Black Butch Cis lesbian Stormé DeLarverie started threw the first punch that started the stonewall rebellion. I say rebellion and not riot because that is how Stormé herself referred to it:

“It was a rebellion, it was an uprising, it was a civil rights disobedience – it wasn't no damn riot.”

Two cis gays and two cis lesbians, Craig Rodwell. Fred Sargeant, Ellen Broidy, and Linda Rhodes, proposed Pride. And then Cis bisexual Brenda Howard organized it. She is even called “the mother of Pride.”

Furthermore Marsha P Johnson was NOT trans.

And Sylvia Rivera doesn’t like being called trans.

Erasing the accomplishments of gay men, lesbians, and bisexuals to fit your narrative is not cute or “woke.” It’s disrespectful and downright homophobic. All of you spreading misinformation should be ashamed.

[derangedrhythms]

[…] he also classified her as a demon, a devil, a fiend, a spirit and a sorceress, descriptions that actually capture her strange essence.

Andrew Wilson, from ‘Mad Girl’s Love Song: Sylvia Plath and Life Before Ted’ (a letter from Dick Norton to Sylvia Plath, 4th January 1952)

[darkrednailpolishdiva]

∘˚˳∘° ♰ ∘˚˳°∘

[moj-e]

@/chicfeast.art (unknown platforms)

[theloverstomb]

I am no drudge Though for years I have eaten dust And dried plates with my dense hair.

— Sylvia Plath, from ‘Stings’

[bootlegboyfriend]

i need a father, i need a mother, i need some older, wiser being to cry to. i talk to god but the sky is empty.

[drwilfredwaterson]

All Life Must Be Accounted For...

[010101010110101]

Black Pine Tree in the Orange Light

[mournfulroses]

Sylvia Plath, from The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath; "Three Women,"

[synreads444]

Paralytic

It happens. Will it go on? —— My mind a rock, No fingers to grip, no tongue, My god the iron lung

That loves me, pumps My two Dust bags in and out, Will not

Let me relapse While the day outside glides by like ticker tape. The night brings violets, Tapestries of eyes,

Lights, The soft anonymous Talkers: 'You all right?' The starched, inaccessible breast.

Dead egg, I lie Whole On a whole world I cannot touch, At the white, tight

Drum of my sleeping couch Photographs visit me- My wife, dead and flat, in 1920 furs, Mouth full of pearls,

Two girls As flat as she, who whisper 'We're your daughters.' The still waters Wrap my lips,

Eyes, nose and ears, A clear Cellophane I cannot crack. On my bare back

I smile, a buddha, all Wants, desire Falling from me like rings Hugging their lights.

The claw Of the magnolia, Drunk on its own scents, Asks nothing of life.

Sylvia Plath

[derangedrhythms]

Looks fierce and black as rooks;

Sylvia Plath, Collected Poems; from ‘The Queen’s Complaint’

[commetombeunarbre]

, and that she may have begun, before her own death, to forgive her father for dying.

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

Web weaving on" To love and to be loved , to want and to be wanted"

{Words by: Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals; p. 165/Emily Palermo, What I Could Never Confess Without Some Bravado, published in Rising Phoenix Review/Haruki Murakami/@chaandajaan on Tumblr/desperation sits heavy on my tongue, @tullipsink / images: Pinterest}

[theloverstomb]

Black asininity. Decay. Possession. It is they who own me.

— Sylvia Plath, from ‘Wintering’