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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.

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
Orange
Lays
Medicine
Green
Sleep
White
Two
Pink

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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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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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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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Rats live on no evil star
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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