Grief has a lexicon that
I’ve spent a period of
hard times seeking it
I gained nothing but an enormous
failure to devote myself
to its complete literature,
The perfect Salvia Plath is
patting on my cumulative sores,
admitting that it is my right to
file a grievance against my chores,
work, and daily unfair routine,
as she said that she used to be
so wicked; writing all the day
and forgetting about studying,
she said that I had gotten such a
black-and-white soul for
almost uncountable centuries of
self-wars,
Dear Nicole: She wrote—  
Whether you are a believer or not,
You dare to be the
ninety-nine hundredth savior to
the definition of our nihilism.
Sincerely yours,
Sylvia Plath
I closed my eyes and
bleakly enjoyed her poetic
admission that I had faked it
for a while to
keep my victories beating
against all the brightness and
naturality inside of
my pores,
I’m not a happy person;
I belong to sorrow.

Your hell is different,
It extends to be a semi-heaven,
But I can’t belong,
It burns all the paper and ink.
I've got nothing there to be a half-sinner.
I’d rather be a completely miserable poet, in an uninhabited void.

Baba,
I know you better now.
After a long, ferocious time—almost thirty years,
I couldn’t write you a poem that expresses my mixed feelings toward you.
Despite this inconsistency between knowing you and being unable to write to you, we are not arguing or fighting anymore.
My cumulative hatred toward you is calming down.
I forgot about all the wounds that you had drawn on my borderline personality disorder portrait and the demonic words that you used to say to me every morning and night.
I got rid of all the ruins that you had spent time injecting into my pores.
No more writing dark letters and lifting them with balloons to the world to show it how evil you were or spending three hours creating black-and-white videos about family abuse and not posting them anywhere.
I’m a grown woman today; I’m thirty years old, I guess. Keep this in mind.
Baba, in spite of these unfair feelings, I love you to the point of tears.

Your daughter
Nicole.

his fragrant palms,
Filled with marshmallows and ink stains,
I’m tracing the sugary world, brimming with such a poetic lexicon between his entwined fingers ;
Those Fingertips that I dared to crave
Love, pain, thirst, and beautiful hunger,
I dare to suffer, you won’t.
I care to inflate the romantic havoc, you don’t,
My tempting beauty is rooted in your psychosis, I’m nothing but a complete masterpiece of bleak jellyfish, blindly diving into your seductive ocean.

another note,
another stunning shyness;
you made it glow
like the sparkles under the water,
I’m fully interested in every word
that you would speak,
embrace your poetic mind
devour it ferociously,
my blood is beating inside my veins,
yearning to burst out of my body,
to hunt the sweet honey
that gently covers your golden pores,
if I Were Tinkerbell,
I would definitely pray every single night
for being the one and only Holy Siren,
That will insanely chase your soul
to inflate your hunger
with all the temptation’s tricks
for the sake of swallowing all your sins perfectly ;
disinfecting and archiving them
into our fairytale files,
Darling,
I love you to the point
that I used to crave being thirsty for you.