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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.

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
Blood
Bloom
Break
Exotic
Woman
Monument
Two
Month
Children
Aging
Would
Legs
Like
Flower
Months
Monuments

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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.
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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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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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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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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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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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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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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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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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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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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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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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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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