I Know How Slyvia Felt

I feel Slyvia Plath's agony. Head stuffed in oven as molecules of carbon monoxide choke life out of her. I hear those endless thoughts echoing in her brain and I feel her desperatness for air. I feel the conflict of her survival instincts and her desperate wish to end her pathetic human life. 

When people ask me to laugh a little louder all I can think about is how it would feel-life oozing out of me, leaving my breathless body in the world full of mortals who built homes from their bones.

When people ask me why am I always so melancholic all I want to do is scream. And talk about how my mind works. I want to scream and say that when they talk about hope and optimism all I can feel is pessimism flowing in my blood, richocheting against my ribcage; pumping life inside me while simultaneously sucking it out.

All I want to say is my brain does not feels whatever fuck your does.

But I laugh. And then I laugh a little louder.

I see Hemingway; back hunched, banging his fingertips against rusted typewriter churning heroes after heroes, digging further inside his soul to pen his deepest regrets.

And I feel him-gun inside his mouth and his shaking fingertips pulling the trigger.

I feel his blood and I feel it oozing out of me. And I feel myself -gun inside my mouth and my fingertips on trigger. And I hear it blow.

But as I fall, all I see is Hemingway with sardonic smile on his lips, staring wistfully at yet another masterpiece resting on his old typewriter and Slyvia telling me that she understands.