My mother said: you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide, 
My own blue razor rusting at my throat. 
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at 
Your gate, father - your hound-bitch, daughter, friend. 
It was my love that did us both to death.

SYLVIA PLATH, Electra on Azalea Path