Sylvia Plath didn’t die from cooking her head, that’s a common misconception

I am not going to die from sticking my head out the window and watching the breeze go by

My weathered face

Leather and lace

Compliment one another

In an arms race

Ruminate about

What everyone thinks of me until I’m a fig tree

Weevil on my paper flies away, didn’t know that weevils had wings

I am happy that he gets to go be free wherever the weevils be

Life branching out from me, every man I meet

With an onrush of scenery

Seems less

And less worthy

Of getting out of bed and leaving the house to meet

And, being me

I’m beating leaves off of my canopy

Sylvia plath didn’t kill herself by cooking her head, that’s a misconception

Am I a secondhand embarrassment, or is that just misdirection

Learning to be a silver mirror

Catch ghosts of chances every day

I'll stay loyal to those who hate me

And I shall hate the ones who stay

Learning to be a silver mirror

Battling for that of a silver tongue

Gasping for honesty in a lost world

Not understanding why everyone seems numb