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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.

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
Tell
True
Explained
Really
Hypothesis
Never
Struck
Letting
Medical
Leaves
Brain

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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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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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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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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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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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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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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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
Anne Sexton