Kind of a bitter response to the amount of Sylvia Plath I've been forced to read. I have made no secret of how much I dislike reading a lot of her poetry, due to the glorification of self-harm and suicide, which is something I feel is... not really a good thing for one of the most insecure and (in terms of life in general) inexperienced group of people out there.

One person in a town of thousands.

One person in a country of millions.

One person in a world of seven billion.

Inconsequential.

Mayfly, here and gone, unnoticed;

Even in my own home,

Eyes pass over me and onto important things—

Isolation like quarantine.

No hands reach out to save me from drowning;

There is no salvation but the depths.

No gazes linger on me, no voices ask

What's wrong?

It's too late to pull me from the water,

It's too late to keep watch for me.

I never got a moment's worth of attention;

Maybe now I can have my fifteen minutes of fame.