Dear Sylvia

A letter to Sylvia Plath

Such a tragic masterpiece-
You crouching by the oven
Drinking in the poisonous air.
I found you there,
But much too late.
Thirty-two years too late,

But the distance
Doesn’t stop me from crying,
From wishing that we
Had been best friends
And I could’ve
Pulled you up.
 
But no,
You felt like a star
Pinned to the sky-
Burning-
Couldn’t pull away
From the heat.
 
God had not given
Me life when
You died there,
But I found you nonetheless
And cried as if
You were my own mother.
 
Your grave sits
Cold now and if
I ever decide to visit
I’ll lay out some milk,
Just incase you
Decide to wake up.