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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.

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
Poor
Thing
Never
Brooklyn
Dies

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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
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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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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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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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