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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.

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
Borrowed
Fees
Numb

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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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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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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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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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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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I burn the way money burns.
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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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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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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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women are born twice.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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