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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.

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
Thinking
Someday
Suicide
Killing
Miracle
Ends
Think

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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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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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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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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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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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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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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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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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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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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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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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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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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