Quote

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.

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
Aliens
Pearl
Skin
Floats
Skins
Pills
Sleep
Pearls
Stung
White
Alien
Bolt
Splendid
Pill
Loose
Cloth
Sleeping
Bolts

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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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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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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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Need is not quite belief.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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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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I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
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Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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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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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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