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I am accused. I dream of massacres. 
I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them,
Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives
Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
— Sylvia Plath, Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices
Reposted fromtove tove viafuckyeahliteratura fuckyeahliteratura

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