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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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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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All who love have lied.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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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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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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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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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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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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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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In a dream you are never eighty.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
Anne Sexton