• At the end of the day, it isn’t where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I’m going and never have been before

    Warsan Shire
  • With you, intimacy colours my voice.even ‘hello’ sounds like ‘come here'

    Warsan Shire
  • Your daughter is ugly.She knows loss intimately,carries whole cities in her belly.As a child, relatives wouldn’t hold her.She was splintered wood and sea water.They said she reminded them of the war.On her fifteenth birthday you taught herhow to tie her hair like rope and smoke it over burning frankincense.You made her gargle rosewaterand while she coughed, saidmacaanto girls like you shouldn’t smellof lonely or empty.You are her mother.Why did you not warn her,hold her like a rotting boatand tell her that men will not love herif she is covered in continents,if her teeth are small colonies,if her stomach is an islandif her thighs are borders?What man wants to lay down and watch the world burn in his bedroom? Your daughter’s face is a small riot,her hands are a civil war,a refugee camp behind each ear,a body littered with ugly thingsbut God, doesn’t she wearthe world well

    Warsan Shire
  • Loving you was like going to war; I never came back the same

    Warsan Shire
  • His eyes were the same colour as the sea in a postcard someone sends you when they love you, but not enough to stay

    Warsan Shire
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