Thought.is

There is beautiful or ugly. Fat or skinny. Good or bad. Slutty or prudish. Girly or tomboyish. Smart or ditzy.

No, I know that I think far too much.

You, Sylvia Plath, you taunt me—luring me into the throes of your twisted lyrical speech.

One day we will stroll down Rome’s Piazza Navona, passing from one art vendor to another, lingering on the brushstrokes and each flick of paint.

Control is how she looks, what she says, how she sounds, what she does.