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I was an angry teenage girl which ought to surprise no one. I loved Sylvia Plath, and every once in a while, she draws me back in.

March 1, 1956: Thursday
I can hear the wounded, miraculous furry voice of the dear bête whispering so slow through the palace of floating curtains. And the Angel Huertebise and Death melt through mirrors like water. Only in your eyes did the winds come from other planets, and it cuts me so, when you speak to me through every word of French, through every single word I look up bleeding in the dictionary.