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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.

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
Connections
Coffins
Letters
Telephone
Full
Photo
Talk
Telephones
Girl
Chain
Lost
Letter
Chains
Keyholes
Bills
Wrinkled

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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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All who love have lied.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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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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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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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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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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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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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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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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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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