How can you be so many women to so many strange people, oh you strange girl? - Sylvia Plath

Everything people did seemed so silly, because they only died in the end.

I need a father. I need a mother. I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty.

I didn’t want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn’t know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I’d cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.