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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.

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
Truth
Much
Size
Aren
Days
Company
Words
Tell

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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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All who love have lied.
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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I have been cut in two.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
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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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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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