Anne Sexton Quotes - Page 10

O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.

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.

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.

I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.

Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.

I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.

She suffers according to the digits of my hate. I hear the filaments of alabaster. I would lie down with them and lift my madness off like a wig. I would lie outside in a room of wool and let the snow cover me. Paris white or flake white or argentine, all in the washbasin of my mouth, calling “Oh.” I am empty. I am witless. Death is here. There is no other settlement.

Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.

sorrow is easier than guilt.

No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.

Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.

Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.

Death's in the good-bye.

The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.

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.

I have been cut in two.

I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.

I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.

I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.

we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.

I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.

Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.

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.

Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.

Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.