Tripping over broken glass –
Shattered shards of an open window.
One that was left unbolted for far too long.
You wouldn’t believe the kind of men
Who paid their visit at home.
Some intruders – she slapped them away
Before they could gouge the meat off her thighs.
Some she invited herself. Men she came to love.
Men who she offered love dipped in tea and cakes.
To the last – she offered her soul.
She woke up from her reverie.
Cleaned the blood off her feet
To reveal tiny, sore punctures.
Stitch them up together
And they’d form the mosaic
That was her heart –
Jagged at the edges, a gaping hole in the middle
Crowned with a constellation of kisses
From her former lover.
She mused, maybe the infamous black hole
Was nothing else but the ticking organ she bore.
She tasted fire in the air.
Soot and smoke in her lungs.
Bookmarking those musings, she ran.
Her house was set alight.
Each door she opened,
Beer breath – the kinds she had once inhaled,
And made love to.
Bookmark those away, too,
She reprimanded herself.
Which door signaled escape?
Collapsing amid wood, ash, burned trinkets,
She fought no more;
Allowing the flames to lick her clean.
Holding close to her chest
A crumpled, old parchment that read –
‘Is there no way out of the mind.’
Plath’s words were the last thing she remembered
Before she went off to dance with her demons.