by Sylvia Plath

Clownlike, happiest on your hands, Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled, Gilled like a fish. A common-sense Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode. Wrapped up in yourself like a spool, Trawling your dark as owls do. Mute as a turnip from the Fourth Of July to All Fools’ Day, O high-riser, my little loaf.

She's not a victim of the narrative, she made a choice and by refusing to even accept that as a premise—even if you think it was a bad choice—you're forcing on her a lack of agency, not the narrative

The boys and Max were all devasted that she was staying behind—and they all cried for El or Eleven. They're her family, but like Kali said in her own inelegant way, that's not her name. To them she'll always be the girl from the lab, and I think she deserves better than that.

Her mind—please, look me in the eye when I say this—her mind is a literal fucking void. It's not constructed around core memories or emotions or anything. Do we realize how fucking tragic that is? Even after years with these people who showed her love and kindness, her mind is a void. Whatever it was they offered her, it wasn't enough. Let her build herself.

I try not to be pedantic about grammar and stuff, but, uh.