Lately I have been writing letters to Sylvia Plath. She’s my favorite poet and one of my favorite authors, and I’ve felt close to her in the past couple of weeks. Everything seems to be going well for me, yet simultaneously working against me. All happiness feels temporary, easily removed like a Band-Aid being ripped off. To be human is one of the best and worst things in the universe. Sylvia Plath understood that.

This week while everyone else celebrates Valentine’s Day, my least favorite holiday, when romance is forced upon the world with generic cards and roses that immediately die, I’ll be paying my respects to Sylvia. On February 11, the anniversary of the day she committed suicide, I plan only to read her poems and write letters to her. It’s the least I could do after all that she’s done for me. ♦