Sylvia Monologues

Story of the relationship between poets Edward James "Ted" Hughes and Sylvia Plath.

We're not even two people. Even before we met, we were just these two halves, walking around with big gaping holes in the shape like the other person. And when we found each other we were finally whole. And then it was as if we couldn't stand being happy so we ripped ourselves in half again.

Sometimes I dream the tree, and the tree is my life. One branch is the man I shall marry, and the leaves my children. Another branch is my future as a writer, and each leaf is a poem. Another branch is a good academic career. But as I sit there trying to choose, the leaves bring to turn brown and blow away, until the tree is absolutely bare.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not - solid. I'm hollow. There's - nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. Its as if I never - I never thought anything. I never wrote - anything. I never felt anything. All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.

That's why they make children learn them in school. They don't want them messing about with them on their own. I mean, just imagine if a sonnet went off accidentally. Boom.

No. I've never been happier and I've never written more. Its as if, now he's gone, I'm free. I can finally write. I wake up between three and four, cause that's the worst time, and I write till dawn. I really feel like God is speaking through me.

Dying is an art. Like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like Hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call.

I was dead. Only, I rose up again. Like Lazarus. Lady Lazarus. That's me.