You wanted to be Sylvia Plath.

by Heather Nicholson

You pinched your cigarettes and blew smoke rings. Didn’t care about anything and told me you wanted to be Sylvia Plath. I wasn’t sure if you meant famous or depressed. You asked if there was a difference.

If I’d still been seventeen, I would have said yes. But you asked when I was eighteen and I’d felt the shift just hours in. You felt it when Mom was still pushing you to be something. Kidding, I asked if she meant Batman or Joker.

With a smile, you looked at me, blew a smoke ring and whispered, is there a difference?

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