I fear I may be
the unfortunate reincarnation
of Sylvia Plath.

Born fifty years to the day
from her initial entrance,
I draw the parallels
between our lives –
lines that connect
far more than astrology.

Both of us poets,
wordsmiths
living through our literary confessions.
Desperate to be taken seriously –
a gift freely granted
to the masculine,
but almost impossible to achieve
with a soft voice and gentle hands.

Both with daddy complexes
due to the abandonment
of an early death,
we seek that missing link
in other men
(some more worthwhile
than others).

Our final connection results
in a morbidly strengthened bond –
a certain disregard
for our own lives.

We dream of being free
from this earthly game,
but lack the forbearance
for a lengthy battle.
Instead, we choose to dream of release –
and in our darker moments,
even plan it.