Quote

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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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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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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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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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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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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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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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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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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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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