My head is in the oven, face down
on the metal grills, lips kissing
the burning iron, glowing vermillion.
Quickly the air begins to hiss, my skin peels
exposing the secrets it hides, my mouth now open
without my consent. Sweat, tears, fluids unnamed;
fat and flesh; meat and muscle;
(This is the only way to inspect my bones, to see
whether they are a pristine white, as I hope
they are, or tarnished with an inborn stain.)
The smoke billows out of these four embered walls,
the sweet stench rising out through the chimney
escaping into the clouds.
(My skull is not as bad as I feared.)
I lift my lids and all is born again,
I think I made you up inside my head.
- Mad Girl’s Love Song, Sylvia Plath