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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.

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
Thinking
Anymore
Daisies
Like
Ears
Corpse
Listen
Slide
Dies
Slides
Better
Corpses
Great
Worms
Would
Sigh
Think
Believed

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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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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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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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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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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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