Sunday Writing Prompt “Lady Lazarus- Sylvia Plath”

My heart opens with a shriek.

She takes in everything

as if it belonged to her alone.

All that is left of my tears

is the salt on my cheeks.

I scrub my skin raw.

Deep down I know

that I am the moon

my face pale and wavering.

Too proud to ask for help

but not too proud

to declare myself deficient.

I can’t bare it you know

this devastating mediocrity

I’d rather be a ghost.

I look askance,

arms outstretched

how dare I ask

for a moment of your time

when you have paid so much

and I so little.

How could this feeling be false?

A mere ploy?

When I can see my life thinning.

Right before my eyes

everything that I have loved

presses forward

and I falling backwards

cannot hope to catch up

so I stand looking on quietly.

I hold in my hand

the greasy, black umbilicus

but it cannot be torn free.

I cannot rewrite the script

it is set into my very bones.

All that is left of me

is the knowing,

is the romanticization of this illness

which has become my identity.

My indemnity, my indignity

what a joke, what a fate

to be defiled by my very own mind.

I feel their eyes on me,

their theatrical hunger

and if I were to die

They’d say “What a pity!”

“What a waste!”

“She was too young!”

It’s not a fix, dying

I think this sin should follow me

beyond the grave.


Based on my teenage years which was a very dark period