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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Promise
Face
Faces
Stuffing
Upon
Vomit
Truth
Promises
Mouth
Mouths
Watching

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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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Need is not quite belief.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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