Ode to Sylvia

I’m fucking wasted-
I know you know what I mean love cos
I know that you have tasted it,
something from the bottom of me
dripping out the bottom of me,
liken it to nectar but it’s bitter like
lobotomy.

Someone said I’m like Plath
with my words
like they remember that,
something like a womb you just ripped open and spread like a map.
Like you could ever know the taste of death
as life flows through your legs,
like you could know a woman just because your mouth has gaped to catch the dregs of
everything she carried on her hips-

could you go through with it?

Like do you really think that you could
truly know what love commits?
Like could you be an open pit for everyone you love
to really dance and sick and drug and fucking drag themselves and die upon?

Without even your name upon their face
to see you cried upon!
Every single wound they wrought and
every time they lost the plot,
the way you held your arms outstretched
the whole time
it was all for naught.

Could you know the darkness of the woman you call Sylvia?
or are you satisfied to sit with dick in hand and sing to her?

4 thoughts on “Ode to Sylvia

  1. I think (not sure) one of the signs of decent writing is when a random reader feels like they are being represented in the content being read or better yet, the inspiration for the content itself.

    This one makes me think of the famous Cobain quote: “Nobody dies a virgin . . . life fucks us all”

    Liked by 1 person

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