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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.

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
Spots
Wear
Slaps
Rouge
Grow
Thumbs
Grows
Slap
Like
Assault
Spot
Throat

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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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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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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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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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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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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