Control is how she looks, what she says, how she sounds, what she does.
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.
You, Sylvia Plath, you taunt me—luring me into the throes of your twisted lyrical speech.
No, I know that I think far too much.
There is beautiful or ugly. Fat or skinny. Good or bad. Slutty or prudish. Girly or tomboyish. Smart or ditzy.