This starts with a poem for no real reason

They thought death was worth it, but I

Have a self to recover, a Queen

Is she dead, is she sleeping?

Where has she been, with her lion-red body, her wings of glass?

Now she is flying

More terrible than she ever was, red

Scar in the sky, red comet

Over the engine that killed her

• from "Stings", by Sylvia Plath

These words weren't written for me or about me (OBVIOUSLY). Yet I carry them with me. Sometimes I wonder if that's silly. Excessive. Self-aggrandizing? No, I wouldn't go that far.

I carry them for comfort and empowerment. That was what they were written for, weren't they? So why not use them as such?

I am off all social media. I wouldn't call THIS social media, this is a one woman show. Literally. I don't even know how many people read this. It doesn't matter too much to me.

It's nice that some people like my writing, but that doesn't fill me up with more than like 1/5th a tank of gas.

I'm just so done.