by Warsan Shire My older sister soaps between her legs, her hair a prayer of curls. When she was my age, she stole the neighbour’s husband, burnt his name into her skin. For weeks she smelt of cheap perfume and dying flesh. It’s 4 a.m. and she winks at me, bending over the sink, her small breasts bruised from sucking. She smiles, pops her gum before saying, boys are haram, don’t ever forget...
Your aunt Sharice used bleaching cream. Your mother explained what that was by saying It’s when you set fire to yourself so others will compliment the light of your burning.
The flavour of life is love. The salt of life is also love.– Mariama Bâ, So long a letter
Walked from Cite de Architecture to the Eiffel...
In Paris! Don’t wanna go back to London.
You Were Conceived →
by Warsan Shire On the night of our secret wedding when he held me in his mouth like a promise until his tongue grew tired and fell asleep, I lay awake to keep the memory alive. In the morning I begged him back to bed. Running late, he kissed my ankles and left. I stayed like a secret in his bed for days until his mother found me. I showed her my gold ring, I stood in front of her naked, waved...
I’ve never seen people from my country kiss. But every 9th months, there is a new soul.
If your goal is purity of heart, be prepared to be thought very odd.– Elisabeth Elliot