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Give your daughters difficult names. Give your daughters names that command the full use of the tongue. My name makes you want to tell me the truth. My name doesn't allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right.
Warsan Shire
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Warsan Shire
Age: 36
Born: 1988
Born: January 1
Poet
Writer
Republic of Kenya
Give
Anyone
Command
Right
Use
Tongue
Giving
Difficult
Allow
Tell
Daughter
Makes
Trust
Doesn
Name
Shire
Cannot
Full
Pronounce
Truth
Names
Daughters
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How far have you walked for men who've never held your feet in their laps?
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Make love like you have no secrets like you've never been left never been hurt like the world don't owe you a single wretched thing.
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The ego hurts you like this: you become obsessed with the one person who does not love you. blind to the rest who do.
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To my daughter I will say, ‘when the men come, set yourself on fire.’
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My alone feels so good, I'll only have you if you're sweeter than my solitude.
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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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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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I am a lover without a lover. I am lovely and lonely and I belong deeply to myself.
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Document the moments you feel most in love with yourself - what you're wearing, who you're around, what you're doing. Recreate and repeat.
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Your mouth is a lonely place but I keep coming back.
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With you, intimacy colors my voice. Even 'hello' sounds like 'come here'.
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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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We took such care of tomorrow, but died on the way there.
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I belong deeply to myself.
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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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Sad people have the gift of time, while the world dizzies everyone else they remain stagnant, their bodies refusing to follow pace with the universe. With these kind of people everything aches for too long, everything moves without rush, wounds are always wet.
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Perhaps, the problem is not the intensity of your love, but the quality of the people you are loving.
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I want to love, but my hair smells of war and running and running.
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I won't glorify or romanticise heartbreak, for me it was a kind of death and I was forced to keep living.
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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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