Sylvia Plath- Mad Girl’s Love Song

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

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Prologue

I never had a sudden realization that I liked girls. I guess I was just never against the idea, even though my family was super religious. I’m a naturally open person and that includes sexuality, although recently I’ve identified mostly as a lesbian. (Vaguely important note: I’m not out to my family). I never had a crush on Charlie. First of all, I didn’t know she liked girls at that time (at least not concretely). Also, she was a little too out of my league for me to do that to myself. We were friends for most our freshman year of high school: not terribly close but I hung out in her dorm all the time, particularly with her roommate. And then one May morning changed (at the very least) the rest of my high school experience.

*to be continued in Chapter 1*

Walt Whitman- To a Stranger

PASSING stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me,
I ate with you, and slept with you—your body has become not yours only, nor left my body
mine
only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass—you take of my beard,
breast,
hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you—I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,
I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

Paul Eluard- L’Amoureuse

Elle est debout sur mes paupières
Et ses cheveux sont dans les miens,
Elle a la forme de mes mains,
Elle a la couleur de mes yeux,
Elle s’engloutit dans mon ombre
Comme une pierre sur le ciel.

Elle a toujours les yeux ouverts
Et ne me laisse pas dormir.
Ses rêves en pleine lumière
Font s’évaporer les soleils
Me font rire, pleurer et rire,
Parler sans avoir rien à dire.

Hugs

Compatibility is something that just can’t be altered. You have it or you don’t. And when it came to our hugs I could stay there until winter came and passed so many times that we were gray and wrinkled. It felt as if we were holding on for dear life; neither of us wanting to let go of the other. I would absorb the smell of her shampoo mixed with the undeniably unique aroma of Starbucks that always followed us home. Every time a hug ended I would wish that I had held on just a minute longer. No words had to be said, yet our entire relationship was easily summarized in one sweetly innocent action.