Sylvia Plath, help.

“I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.” 

So I'll tell you a story or two.

I remember one night telling him how it didn't make any difference as to whether or not he thought he'd break my heart. We were laying on a mattress on the floor, his bed, under the guise that I was staying at a friend's. We listened to the fireworks from that humid room, murmuring all sorts of wonderful things to one another between each pop and flash of light. I was foolish enough for lying in regards to my whereabouts with a boy I hardly knew, but wise enough to stop him when he uttered such a naive sentence. 

"You can't say that. Some day you will and it'll hurt very much." 

"You can't know that." 

But I did know. I knew that I'd given a part of myself away to him. I gave him a place to live in my mind and leading roles in my dreams, day and night. I gave him my heart and promised my innocence. God, you know, I didn't even like boys any more, only him. I shook my head. "You will, and it's okay. I want to feel everything." 

What a statement for a 19 year old girl. Feel everything. Bathe in heartbreak, regret, remorse. Give it all to me, I wanna feel it all. What on earth was I thinking? And how can I get it all back? I felt so brave laying next to him in that little apartment. He watched me intently, his eyes glittering in the dark. He kissed me. The kid made me feel like a goddess. I knew I couldn't see the future but I didn't care. In that moment I was beautiful and powerful, now alone in my bed, I feel so small second guessing every word I write. Then again, since that moment I've felt quite a few more things. 

"I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited."

And I suppose that that's what I meant. I was inarticulate in my youth and my mental status. Laying in bed with boys does that to me. It ties my tongue in knots and plays keep-away with coherent thoughts. It makes me brazen and oh, routinely unfathomably stupid, but that's a story for another night.  

Oh.

"kiss me and you will see how important I am."

And of course, I haven't been kissed in over a year.

The last boy to kiss me was a boy driving me home from a bar. I was very drunk. Very drunk and very sad. I asked him to kiss me. He was kind enough to tell me I didn't know what I was asking for. "I don't want to hurt your feelings," he said, sliding my necklace around my neck so that the puzzle piece pendant was centered between my prominent clavicles. I shivered. "I just met you and I know you aren't yourself right now. Later I will, okay?"

He drove me home. We talked the whole way. He told me he was studying to be a cardiologist. A heart doctor. I cried. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he held me for a moment. He hushed me gently and gave me a peck on the cheek. I pretended not to notice. Later, I pretended I didn't want it, but I really did need it. Looking back, it was such a reassuring thing. Such a kind stranger. Thank you.










“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” 


What a terrible way to end this piece.




I need a kiss.