Anne Sexton, Why I took My Own Life

I wore my mind like a corset—tight, laced, unseen— while the world asked me to smile with lipstick teeth and stir the soup without stirring the storm inside. There were mornings I woke as if embalmed, already dressed in the hush of death's silk slip, no reason, no riot—just a fog that would not lift. The walls of my room pulsed like veins and the mirror whispered lies in a female voice: You are failing. You are too much. You are not enough. I was the soft thing breaking beneath a century of silence stitched into my sex, taught to hush the howl and cradle the ache. My hands shook when folding towels. My heart stuttered at the scent of soap. There was no name then for the madness. Just "hysteria," like a curse tucked under my skirt, and doctors who told me to marry or pray. No pills yet. No lifeboats. Just poems or the end. So I chose the door that closed softer than the others. Not for drama— but for rest, for mercy, for the silence to finally match the silence within me. If I'd been born later, maybe there'd be lithium instead of letters. But time gave me verse, and verse gave me wings too torn to fly.