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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by

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
Watches
Watch
Walk
Walks
Trouble
Right
Love
Grown
Tired

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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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Need is not quite belief.
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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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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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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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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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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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women are born 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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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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