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Two people who were once very close can without blame or grand betrayal become strangers. Perhaps this is the saddest thing in the world.

Warsan Shire

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Warsan Shire
Age: 36
Born: 1988
Born: January 1
Poet
Writer
Republic of Kenya
Two
Betrayal
Become
Strangers
Without
Grand
Thing
Stranger
Love
Blame
World
Close
People
Perhaps
Shire
Honest
Saddest

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Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women, kitchen of love, bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy. Sometimes, the men, they come with keys, and sometimes the men, they come with hammers.
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Light attracts light. But sometimes your light attracts moths and your warmth attracts parasites. Protect your space and energy
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I think in Somali, I cuss in Somali, when I'm afraid I reach for somali and this language is very rich, very filling. It's an unflinching language the crudest most terrible things sound perfectly normal in Somali.
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I belong deeply to myself.
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Your mouth is a lonely place but I keep coming back.
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And you tried to change, didn't you? Closed your mouth more. Tried to be softer, prettier, less volatile, less awake... You can't make homes out of human beings. Someone should have already told you that. And if he wants to leave, then let him leave. You are terrifying, and strange, and beautiful. Something not everyone knows how to love.
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When I love, I love: wholly, thoroughly, completely, drowning in everything. Every glance can be a conversation, eyes just playing and saying what needs to be said. Silence is loud, and the air becomes heavy. I want you. I want all of you.
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I have my mother’s mouth and my father’s eyes on my face they are still together.
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My heart is a flower blossoming out of my mouth.
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My favourite people, biggest inspirations and closest friends are all women. Not a coincidence.
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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.
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Don't assume, ask. Be kind. Tell the truth. Don't say anything you can't stand behind fully. Have integrity. Tell people how you feel.
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Later that night, I held an atlas on my lap, ran my fingers across the whole world, and whispered, ‘where does it hurt?’ It answered, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
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I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel once. I'm bloated with language I can’t afford to forget.
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Apathy is the same as war, it all kills you, she says. Slow like cancer in the breast or fast like a machete in the neck.
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My name is indigenous to my country, it is not easy to pronounce, it takes effort to say correctly and I am absolutely in love with the sound of it and its meaning. Also, it's not the kind of name you baby, slip into sweet talk mid sentence, late night phone conversation, whisper into the receiver kind of name, so, of that I am glad.
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I want to love, but my hair smells of war and running and running.
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I know a few things to be true. I do not know where I am going, where I have come from is disappearing, I am unwelcome and my beauty is not beauty here. My body is burning with the shame of not belonging, my body is longing.
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Every mouth you’ve ever kissed was just practice. All the bodies you’ve ever undressed and ploughed in to were preparing you for me. I don’t mind tasting them in the memory of your mouth. Was it a long journey? Did it take you long to find me? You’re here now, welcome home.
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You are terrifying, and strange, and beautiful. Something not everyone knows how to love.
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