Anne Sexton Quotes
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As for me, I am a watercolor.I wash off.
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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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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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Catch me. I'm your disease.
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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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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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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 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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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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I rot on the wall, my ownDorian Gray.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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I am alive when your fingers are.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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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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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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You said the anger would come backjust as the love did.
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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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It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
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Need is not quite belief.
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Love your self's self where it lives.There is no special God to refer to; or if there is,why did I let you growin another place. You did not know my voicewhen I came back to call. All the superlativesof tomorrow's white tree and mistletoewill not help you know the holidays you had to miss.
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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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Love! That red disease -