Anne Sexton Quotes - Page 8

Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.

And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself

Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.

Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

women are born twice.

Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.

Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.

The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.

All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.

Need is not quite belief.

Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.

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.

There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.

Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.

Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.

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.

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.

My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.

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.

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.

At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.

Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind

Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.