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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.

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
Daisies
Bruises
Careful
Words
Language

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In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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I burn the way money burns.
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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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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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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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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
Anne Sexton
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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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