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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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
Happiness
Arguing
Museum
Two
Dust
Happily
Stories
Telling
Bothered
Ever
Case
Prince
Never
Lived
Timing
Like
Marriage
Museums
Cinderella
Cases
Eggs
Diapers
Story
Twice
Dolls
More quotes by Anne Sexton
One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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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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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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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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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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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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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
Anne Sexton
I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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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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Rats live on no evil star
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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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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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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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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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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