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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.

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
Told
Painted
Stars
Brand
Woman
Brands
Dream
Knees
Light
Heat
Thought
Questions
Body
Youth
Goodnight
Really
Dreams
Elbows

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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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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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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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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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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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