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

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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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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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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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Need is not quite belief.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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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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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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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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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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Rats live on no evil star
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