Anne Sexton Quotes
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As for me, I am a watercolor.I wash off.
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Death,I need my little addiction to you.need that tiny voice who,even as I rise from the sea,all woman, all there,says kill me, kill me.
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Fact: death too is in the egg. Fact: the body is dumb, the body is meat.And tomorrow the O.R. Only the summer was sweet.
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I am, each day,typing out the Godmy typewriter believes in.Very quick. Very intense,like a wolf at a live heart.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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Catch me. I'm your disease.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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I begin again, Dr.Y,this neverland journal,full of my own sense of filth.Why else keep a journal, if notto examine your own filth?
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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I rot on the wall, my ownDorian Gray.
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I am stuffing your mouth with yourpromises and watchingyou vomit them out upon my face.
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We all walk softly away.We would stay and be the nurse butthere are too many of us and we are too worried to help.It is love that walks awayand yet we have terrible mouthsand soft milk hands.We worry with like.We walk away like love.
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You said the anger would come backjust as the love did.
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With a tongue like a razor he will kissthe mother, the child,and we three will color the stars blackin memory of his motherwho kept him chained to the food treeor turned him on and off like a water faucetand made women through all these hazy yearsthe enemy with a heart of lies.
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I am alive when your fingers are.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoesin their stone boats. They are more like stonethan the sea would be if it stopped. They refuseto be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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Need is not quite belief.
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I have ridden in your cart, driver,waved my nude arms at villages going by,learning the last bright routes, survivorwhere your flames still bite my thighand my ribs crack where your wheels wind.A woman like that is not ashamed to die.I have been her kind.
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But suicides have a special language.Like carpenters they want to know which tools.They never ask why build.
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.