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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.

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
Suicide
Thus
Killing
Fantasy
Powerful
Fantasies
Powerless

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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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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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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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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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Need is not quite belief.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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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 am younger each year at the first snow.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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Suddenly I'm not half the girl I used to be. There's a shadow hanging over me . . . From me to you out of my electric devil.
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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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Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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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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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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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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All who love have lied.
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