Anne Sexton at home reading Wanting to Die

Anne Sexton at home reading Wanting to Die Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. Then the almost unnameable lust returns. Even then I have nothing against life. I know well the grass blades you mention, the furniture you have placed under the sun. But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic. In this way, heavy and thoughtful, warmer than oil or water, I have rested, drooling at the mouthhole. I did not think of my body at needle point. Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone. Suicides have already betrayed the body. Stillborn, they dont always die, but dazzled, they cant forget a drug so sweet that even children would look on and smile. To thrust all that life under your tongue that, all by itself, becomes a passion. Deaths a sad Bone; bruised, you