Anne Sexton Quotes
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As for me, I am a watercolor.I wash off.
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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, 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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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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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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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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Why have your eyes gone into their own room?
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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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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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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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Catch me. I'm your disease.
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He puts his bones back on,Turning the clock back an hour.She knows flesh, that skin balloon,the unbound limbs, the boards,the roof, the removable roof.She is his selection, part time.You know the story too! Look,when it is over he places her,like a phone, back on the hook.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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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 am stuffing your mouth with yourpromises and watchingyou vomit them out upon my face.
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I am alive when your fingers are.
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Even so, I must admire your skill.You are so gracefully insane.
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I rot on the wall, my ownDorian Gray.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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Need is not quite belief.
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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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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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Dearest,although everything has happened,nothing has happened.