contemplating silvia plath no.2

saint, martyr, raging fallopian
death whore
constructor of scaffolds
the stage, from which
you address the world

lips like leaches, sucker of
blood, oxygen thief
spitting your tantrum poems
through your death mask
grin, look at me! look at me!
how dead I am

how clever you are
manipulating
your grotesque mannequin
from your cold hole

slavishly dependent, scorned lover
betrayed wife, deserted mother
hideously manic

your confessionals
accusations set free
into the world
to breed like rats

was death you're curse
on him, your clenched fist
forever frozen
on his dark heart

your final act, a death mark
on their affair, or are you
dead dead dead
your bones juggled up
by a cult of witches