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

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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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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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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A woman who writes feels too much.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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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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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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