<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=336624" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Wanting to Die</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. <br>I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. <br>Then the almost unnameable lust returns. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even then I have nothing against life. <br>I know well the grass blades you mention, <br>the furniture you have placed under the sun. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But suicides have a special language. <br>Like carpenters they want to know which tools. <br>They never ask why build. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Twice I have so simply declared myself, <br>have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, <br>have taken on his craft, his magic. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In this way, heavy and thoughtful, <br>warmer than oil or water, <br>I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I did not think of my body at needle point. <br>Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone. <br>Suicides have already betrayed the body. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still-born, they don’t always die, <br>but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet <br>that even children would look on and smile. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">To thrust all that life under your tongue!— <br>that, all by itself, becomes a passion. <br>Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and yet she waits for me, year after year, <br>to so delicately undo an old wound, <br>to empty my breath from its bad prison. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, <br>raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon, <br>leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">leaving the page of the book carelessly open, <br>something unsaid, the phone off the hook <br>and the love whatever it was, an infection.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Sexton">Anne Sexton</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=336624" data-title="Wanting to Die de Anne Sexton" data-description="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 place..."></div> </div> </div>

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