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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!

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
Think
Wearing
Thinking
Victim
Along
Longer
White
Black
Writing
Poems
Always
Mask

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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.
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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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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
Anne Sexton
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
Anne Sexton
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The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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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.
Anne Sexton
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All who love have lied.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
Anne Sexton
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
Anne Sexton
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
Anne Sexton