American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Excerpt · Fragment · Modernism · Poetry

Sylvia Plath

Cold glass, how you insert yourself Between myself and myself. I scratch like a cat. The blood that runs is dark fruit– An effect, a cosmetic. You smile. No, it is not fatal. —  Sylvia Plath, from “The Other,” The Collected Poems. Edited and introduction by Ted Hughs. (Harper Perennial Modern Classics; Reprint edition September… Continue reading Sylvia Plath

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