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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
Anyhow
Imperfect
Soul
Really
Love
Deformed

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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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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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Rats live on no evil star
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All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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I burn the way money burns.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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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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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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