Anne Sexton Quotes
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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 was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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Why have your eyes gone into their own room?
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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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Dearest,although everything has happened,nothing has happened.
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Love! That red disease -
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We are all writing God's poem.
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In my sights I carve himlike a sculptor. I mold outhis last look at everyone.I carry his eyes and hisbrain bone at every position.I know his male sex and I domarch over him with my index finger.His mouth and his anus are one.I am at the center of feeling.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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Even so, I must admire your skill.You are so gracefully insane.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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All who love have lied.
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The tongue, the Chinese say,is like a sharp knife:it killswithout drawing blood.
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A woman who writes feels too much,those trances and portents!As if cycles and children and islandsweren't enough; as if mourners and gossipsand vegetables were never enough.She thinks she can warm the stars.A writer is essentially a spy.Dear love, I am that girl.
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Beauty is a simple passion,but, oh my friends, in the endyou will dance the fire dance in iron shoes.
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I am murdering me, where I kneeled at your kiss.I am pushing knives through the handsthat created two into one.Our hands do not bleed at this, they lie still in their dishonor.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.I've been wronged all year, tediousnights, nothing but rough elbows in themand delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybabycrybaby, you fool!
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk:faithless to my tongue and hands,giving up the boundariesfor the heroic gin.Dead drunk is the term I think of,insensible,neither cool nor warm,without a head or foot.To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.I will try it shortly.