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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

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
Dorian
Gray
Wall

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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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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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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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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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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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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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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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I burn the way money burns.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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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.
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