Grief has a lexicon that
I’ve spent a period of
hard times seeking it
I gained nothing but an enormous
failure to devote myself
to its complete literature,
The perfect Salvia Plath is
patting on my cumulative sores,
admitting that it is my right to
file a grievance against my chores,
work, and daily unfair routine,
as she said that she used to be
so wicked; writing all the day
and forgetting about studying,
she said that I had gotten such a
black-and-white soul for
almost uncountable centuries of
self-wars,
Dear Nicole: She wrote—  
Whether you are a believer or not,
You dare to be the
ninety-nine hundredth savior to
the definition of our nihilism.
Sincerely yours,
Sylvia Plath
I closed my eyes and
bleakly enjoyed her poetic
admission that I had faked it
for a while to
keep my victories beating
against all the brightness and
naturality inside of
my pores,
I’m not a happy person;
I belong to sorrow.