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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.

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
Recipes
Hospital
Hospitals
Read
Body
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Recipe

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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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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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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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 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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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
Anne Sexton
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All who love have lied.
Anne Sexton
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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.
Anne Sexton
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
Anne Sexton