Quote

... 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.

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
Sleep
Bitterly
Need
Thirsty
Needs
Glowing
Even
Stays
Heart
Helpless
Love
Shade
Cover
Broken
Spasms

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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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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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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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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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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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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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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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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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