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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.

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
Liver
Mouths
Movements
Marriage
Wedding
Movement
Houses
House
Marry
Another
Skin
Women
Skins
Heart
Bowel
Kind
Mouth

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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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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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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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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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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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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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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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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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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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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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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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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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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