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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
Much
Size
Aren
Days
Company
Words
Tell
Truth

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares 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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women are born twice.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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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. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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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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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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