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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.

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
Thieves
Badly
Alone
Death
Wanted
Long
Crawl
Thief
Suicidal

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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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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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Rats live on no evil star
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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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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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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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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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
Anne Sexton