Quote

The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.

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
Full
Breaks
Enemy
Enemies
Break
Presence
Face
Breathe
Faces
Sky
Upon
Mines
Place
Mine
World
Safe
Breathes

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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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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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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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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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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 leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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