O Sylvia

I threw a cup.
It landed on the kitchen worktop.
The impact dented the wood and the flying shards scratched it .

I put the shards in the bin.

They cut my thumb.

If Sylvia Plath had smashed a cup, she would probably have written something oblique and startling about blood and her father.
Or possibly the moon.

But I can't because I usually write metaphors about Nature and Love.

And this is about a flying cup.

It's ok, I haven't gone mad. This happened a long time ago. Just wish I was more like Sylvia. She's my all time favourite after Norman.