Plath, of course. The poetry full of riddles and the Journals containing keys to pick the locks. The bowl had placenta in, ah, so…
Her theoretical suicide would involve pills and booze. A bed, crumpled sheets, a letter, handwritten. Her body, in a nightdress, pale and beautiful in escape.
It was her comfort.
For years, she thrilled to untimely deaths as she laboured through life and children, house and car. She dragged herself through loveless sexless marriage into aloneness.
The wine blurred the sides aglow. A knife, sharp, her fingertip teasing the blade. Slumped cross legged on the kitchen floor with knife friend waiting for helpgodsign. In its absence, she uncurled her aching limbs, replaced the knife in the block and took shame to bed.
Autumnal day. Birdsong. Crisp air. View from a window where the sober knife seemed ridiculous in bright. Yet. She daydreams a dive onto a sword.
Sara Crowley‘s novel in progress, Salted, was chosen as one of four finalists in the Faber/Book Tokens Not Yet Published Award, and she is the winner of Waterstone’s 2009 Bookseller’s Bursary. Her work was published recently in Neon, PANK and FRiGG. She blogs at A Salted and appreciates you taking the time to read this.