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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.

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
Taken
Suicide
Suicides
Language
Tools
Carpenter
Never
Build
Declared
Like
Magic
Eaten
Simply
Craft
Special
Possessed
Enemy
Crafts
Asks
Twice
Carpenters

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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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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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I burn the way money burns.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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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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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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