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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.

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
Nice
Warned
Didn
Writes
Writing
Chocolate
Empress
Even
Bars
Empresses
Way
Illness
Apron
Wear
Aprons
Crazy
Typewriter
Break
Typewriters

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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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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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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
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The sanest thing in this world is love.
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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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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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