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Understanding Anne Sexton
Poetry by: InannasMoonPrsts


It is the dying
that hurts the worst. . .

the constant grasping for breath,
the chills,
the uncontrollable waste,
the bleeding without the scab.

I should know. . .

not once have I
given my heart
without it bleeding. . .

the Hell comes
with the ice
around a heart
that just cannot mistrust,
misleading me
into something safe,

fresh slice,
atop fresh slice,
no chance to heal.

How I envy the
heart
that no longer pumps,
that turns to earth,
free of cuts,
ice,
bleeding itself dry,

encased in snow,
picturesque reminder
of its life,
without the open wound
and crimson details,

but the serenity,
tranquility,
to honor its rest.


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