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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.

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
Hung
Occupation
Suicide
Kill
Amount
Small
Actually
Innocuous
Trying
Amounts

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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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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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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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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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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Once upon a time we were all born, popped out like jelly rolls forgetting our fishdom, the pleasuring seas, the country of comfort, spanked into the oxygens of death.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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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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The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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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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Mood can be as important as sense.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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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 rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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