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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.

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
Sleep
Child
Signature
Start
Resides
Death
Signatures
Children
Builds
Heart
Blindness
Flesh
Ultimate

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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If the doctors cure then the sun sees it. If the doctors kill then the earth hides it. The doctors should fear arrogance more than cardiac arrest.
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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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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.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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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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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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All who love have lied.
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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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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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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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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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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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