Anne Sexton Tribute

My Kind
I have walked along a busy street,
cursing the empty faces; avoiding their gaze;
I dream of disasters, my black dress sweeps
over the old cold cobblestone, brown eyes blaze:
pitiful thing, all alone, tortured mind.
A woman like that is not a woman—spite.
I am my kind.
I have found solace in the silence,
plugged my ears with moss, buds, wax,
grass, worms, muddy tyrants;
taped over my eyes with waxy flax:
blinded, deaf to the monotony.
A woman like that thrives on being misunderstood.
I am my kind.
I have ridden on your bus, driver,
fanning myself with the heat of bodies, too close,
eying the easiest escape route, a survivor
your eyes burn holes through my clothes
and my thighs clench where yours part.
A woman like this is not ashamed to die.
I am my kind.
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