There is a charge / For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge / For the hearing of my heart—/ It really goes. / And there is a charge, a very large charge / For a word or a touch / Or a bit of blood / Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

Art from Sylvia Plath's childhood and teenage years, including "illustrated childhood letters that Plath wrote when she was seven," is to be published in October. I really think Bookninja has the right attitude about this sort of thing—let's just dig up her corpse already and be done with it.