The Sylvia Plath Sydrome

Why am I starving myself?

Why do I shave my hair?

When a lover isn't there.

Stop asking me how I am

I am doing okay, without fun.

Dead looking eyes, 

a graveyard of butterflies. Can you

see the ghost that used to live

inside my bones?

Scratches of my past burning my chest.

Truly loveless, less enough. Can't really

figure out what's making it so rough.

Is this the Sylvia Plath sydrome?

For the rejected lovers;

Go wild, leave this home and suppress 

all the pain tonight. Demons touching 

my head lighting my thoughts on fire.

Mother, I am asking for your help, guide

me through this heartbreak.

One out of two, I am turning into blue.

Six out of ten, I am calling it an end.