Quote

And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.

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
Daughter
Crack
Marriage
Shelves
Wall
Dishes
Within
Ashes
House
Cracks
Lapping
Anything
Walls
Stuffed
Needs
Throat
Ceased
Divorce
Fury

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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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Suddenly I'm not half the girl I used to be. There's a shadow hanging over me . . . From me to you out of my electric devil.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating 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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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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