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I grow old on my bitterness.

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
Bitterness
Grow
Grows

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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'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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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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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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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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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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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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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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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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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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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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