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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
Deformed
Anyhow
Imperfect
Soul
Really
Love

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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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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 place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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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 can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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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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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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