The tulips are too red in the first place,
they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper
I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings,
like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound,
it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float,
though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

tulips.
sylvia plath
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