It is three at night. I have something to say. You are so valuable. You shine out. You are a magic star. You are a body of blood made beautiful. How I admire, sit back and adore you. How thirsty I am for that. How you feed me.
Catalog
Anne Sexton
Anne Sexton (November 9, 1928 – October 4, 1974) was an American poet, known for her highly personal, confessional verse. She won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1967 for her book Live or Die. Themes of her poetry include her long battle against depression and mania, suicidal tendencies, and various intimate details from her private life, including her relationships with her husband and children. 2Early life and family Anne Sexton was born Anne Gray Harvey in Newton, Massachusetts to Mary Gray Staples and Ralph Churchill Harvey. She had two older sisters, Jane Elizabeth Harvey (born 1923) and Blanche Dingley Harvey (born 1925). She spent most of her childhood in Boston. In 1945 she enrolled at Rogers Hall boarding school, Lowell, Massachusetts, later spending a year at Garland School. For a time she modeled for Boston's Hart Agency. On August 16, 1948, she married Alfred Muller Sexton II and they remained together until 1973. She had two children named Linda Gray and Joyce Lad
Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes…
Then I think of you in bed, your tongue half chocolate, half ocean, of the houses that you swing into, of the steel wool hair on your head, of your persistent hands and then how we gnaw at the barrier because we are two.
And I don’t know, don’t know, if we belong together or apart, except my soul lingers over the skin of you.
To love another is something like prayer and can’t be planned, you just fall.
I don’t think I have ever loved anyone in my life, not really—just needed them, wanted them to love me to possess me—to become such a part of someone that I could lose my frightened self…
What kind of writer am I? With all this love and no words for it?
I don’t care, I love you anyhow. It is too late to turn you out of my heart. Part of you lives here.
I do not want to look for a mad passionate affair. Not because I’m frightened but because, please believe me, I do not want a lover. I want a friend.
There are a few great souls in my life. They are not many. They are few. You are one.
I met you and unavoidably you were special. So now I love you...
I feel lonely for the sound of your voice.
I don't think I have ever loved anyone in my life, not really — just needed them, wanted them to love me to possess me — to become such a part of someone that I could lose my frightened self...
...lust is so inadequate. And loving exhausts me.
I’m the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
It is three at night. I have something to say. You are so valuable. You shine out. You are a magic star. You are a body of blood made beautiful. How I admire, sit back and adore you. How thirsty I am for that. How you feed me.
I do dislike being a trouble maker and because of this, I have only mumbled my discontent. Yet, now I shout it. Now I am the healthiest, wisest, sickest human you’ll meet.
I need very badly to be just me. I can’t live up to your romantic ideal of me.
I am sometimes totally lost from the world.
I keep trying to force myself to speak of the things that remain mute inside.