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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.

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
Clothes
Full
Soul
Cured
Closet
Closets
Dresses
Fit

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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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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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