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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.

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
Soul
Skin
Skins
Became
Learned
Full
Woman
Found

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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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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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
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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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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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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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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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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
Anne Sexton