My thoughts are crabbed and sallow, my tears like vinegar, or the bitter blinking yellow of an acetic star. Tonight the caustic wind, love, gossips late and soon, and I wear the wry-faced pucker of the sour lemon moon. While like an early summer plum: puny, green, and tart, droops upon its wizened stem; my lean, unripened heart.
Jilted - Sylvia Plath.
Jilted - Sylvia Plath.
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