You mention Plath and what always comes to mind is this poem by her friend Anne Sexton.

Wanting to Die

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.

I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.

Then the almost unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.

I know well the grass blades you mention,

The furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.

Like carpenters they want to know which tools.

They never ask why build.

-Anne Sexton

I'm not sure if I want to write like Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton. it seems dangerous. 😎