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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?

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
Soul
Really
Love
Deformed
Anyhow
Imperfect

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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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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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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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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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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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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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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