I wanted to be

i wanted to be your sylvia plath

your wounded wordsmith

brilliant and neglected

the melancholy mood

lingering between us

perfect for

composing prose

the damp air

of the English countryside

tainted by

carbon monoxide

good thing

you didn’t light the birthday candles

i wanted to be your anaïs nin

your erotic iconoclast

uncaged and courageous

the feverish fantasies

imagined passions

perfect for


the bitter realities

the mind’s vulgarities

spilled across

crisp journal pages

good thing

you didn’t catch that little bird

i wanted to be your virginia woolf

your fluent femininst

observant and obsolete

standing at

the banks of your river

waiting to be baptized

before finding

a room of one’s own

inside myself

good thing

you didn’t explore that lighthouse

a.duncan 2016




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"She would fill endless notebooks with stories about the characters in her life, their impressions, words, friends, lovers, inspirations, fantasies. She spent her days dreaming up worlds where they fit together in visions; the if only, the never again, the someday. Those who knew her best would describe her as a creature with a clear and sometimes painful sense of herself; furious with ideas and convictions, to a point that she frightened love away with discernment and a relentless strength of character."

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