I may be guilty and feel full of holes but I can still say a few things — I love you more than any human being, any anything. To lose you seems worse than death but that is what I must prepare myself to do. The hardest part was our closeness, our deep and lasting relationship, our bonds of confidences. I feel I have failed you and yet I didn’t mean so. And I can’t explain — maybe never can I explain.
What you write is better than what you are.
You’re treated like
shit until you’re killed.
although everything has happened,
nothing has happened.
She is so alive that she vibrates from anywhere.
The thing is, I hardly ever get angry with people. Anger is the missing element in my personality, and even as I feel it now, I’m not happy with it. There seems nothing to do with it. Sorrow, on the other hand, covers me the whole time; endless bits of threatening dark clouds define my very humanity.
People are always telling me I’m tough. Maybe because I’ve survived so much. The only time I’m tough in my own mind is when I’m seized by a poem and then determined to conquer it and let it live its own peculiar life. All my toughness goes into my writing.
Who you are is who I love. Who I am is something else.
For her you were either one of her closest friends or you were no friend at all. She had neither time nor energy for the casual acquaintanceship. She craved the hard lock: two minds, hearts, and souls as one, nothing unsaid, nothing untold, nothing unsung. If you didn’t meet her standards she didn’t hold it against you — she just dismissed you from her mind.
I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
I felt that you were the one person I need not explain to.
"I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found."
—A Self-Portrait in Letters, Anne Sexton
This is important.
Page 1 of 293