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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.

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
Eyes
Eye
Hate
Would
Like
Hating
Bury
Sand
Somewhere

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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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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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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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Need is not quite belief.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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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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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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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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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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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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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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