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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.
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
Without
Loss
Baby
Somebody
Bleed
Blood
Coward
Gone
Abortion
Woman
Logic
Born
Meant
Death
Lead
More quotes by Anne Sexton
I grow old on my bitterness.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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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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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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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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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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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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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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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 am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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