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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.

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
Death
Addiction
Littles
Rise
Little
Tiny
Need
Sea
Needs
Kill
Even
Says
Voice
Woman

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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You're going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
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Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
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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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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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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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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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All who love have lied.
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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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