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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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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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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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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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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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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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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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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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