Response to “Mad Girl’s Love Song” – Sylvia Plath
I didn’t vanish when you closed your eyes,
or fade like mist beneath the morning skies.
You didn’t dream me into flesh and bone—
my heart beats real, and I’ve always stood alone.
When darkness fell and stars took flight,
it wasn’t proof I left your sight.
The world just turned, as it always does—
and I stayed here, waiting, because.
I never bewitched you or drove you mad,
though in my sleep, we had what we never had.
You’re the one who ran, left me with ache,
wondering if love was just your mistake.
I didn’t fall from some imagined height,
or burn away in hell’s dim light.
Your memory may have dropped my name—
but I’m the one who stayed the same.
I’m no thunderbird that screams through spring—
too grounded, too human for such things.
And even as the seasons shift and fade,
my love remains—unmoved, unswayed.
So open your eyes, if you still care to see:
I’ve been here all along, not fantasy.
Not a figment, not a dream, not a ghost you outgrew—
just someone who once believed in you.
Nov 4, 2025
Nov 4, 2025 at 10:54 PM UTC
Response to “Mad Girl’s Love Song” – Sylvia Plath
I didn’t vanish when you closed your eyes,
or fade like mist beneath the morning skies.
You didn’t dream me into flesh and bone—
my heart beats real, and I’ve always stood alone.
When darkness fell and stars took flight,
it wasn’t proof I left your sight.
The world just turned, as it always does—
and I stayed here, waiting, because.
I never bewitched you or drove you mad,
though in my sleep, we had what we never had.
You’re the one who ran, left me with ache,
wondering if love was just your mistake.
I didn’t fall from some imagined height,
or burn away in hell’s dim light.
Your memory may have dropped my name—
but I’m the one who stayed the same.
I’m no thunderbird that screams through spring—
too grounded, too human for such things.
And even as the seasons shift and fade,
my love remains—unmoved, unswayed.
So open your eyes, if you still care to see:
I’ve been here all along, not fantasy.
Not a figment, not a dream, not a ghost you outgrew—
just someone who once believed in you.
Why I Wrote “Not a Figment of Your Imagination”
In Response to Sylvia Plath’s “Mad Girl’s Love Song”
Plath’s poem haunted me. Her speaker spirals through heartbreak, unsure if the love she felt was ever real. That line — “I think I made you up inside my head” — stuck with me. It’s beautiful, but it’s also devastating. I wanted to answer it. Not with denial, but with presence.
So I wrote Not a Figment of Your Imagination from the other side — the voice of the one who was imagined, dismissed, or forgotten. I wanted to say: I was real. I am still here. My speaker doesn’t spiral. They stand firm. They don’t vanish when the eyes close or the stars fall. They remain, steady and waiting.
Where Plath’s imagery is surreal and dreamlike — stars waltzing, God toppling — mine is grounded: heartbeat, flame, touch. I wanted the language to feel human, tactile, undeniable. The rhyme is subtle, but the rhythm is deliberate. It builds toward clarity, not confusion.
Plath’s poem ends in a loop, repeating the doubt. Mine ends with an invitation: open your eyes. It’s not just a rebuttal — it’s a reclamation. A reminder that love, even when overlooked or misremembered, can still be real. Can still endure.
This poem is my answer to the ache in hers. Not imagined. Not forgotten. Just someone who once believed — and still does.
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