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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.

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
Build
Special
Asks
Language
Carpenters
Never
Suicides
Like
Carpenter
Suicide
Tools

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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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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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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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All who love have lied.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
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