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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
Really
Love
Deformed
Anyhow
Imperfect
Soul

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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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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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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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I have been cut in two.
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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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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Love your self's self where it lives.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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