"look at you
you’re so beautiful when you laugh
at night i swear you look like you could swallow the stars
or at least swallow the scars
and stories of the women who came before you.
see how your hair torments the sky
thick curls that blot out the sun
eclipsing the city into the hue
of your grandfathers
your father wanted to name you
after a wet season
he wanted to explain
why the rain falls;
just so that it can taste your skin
dip into your collar bone
drip down your shoulder blades
and on rare occasions when no one is looking
and your head is tilted back,
rush into your open mouth.
for women like you
death comes in the body of a lustful man,
and the earth can’t want to bury itself
look at you,
cloaked in god’s skin.
only in his name could you exist so bright."
Warsan Shire, “poem to self. and other insecure women.” (via lifeinpoetry)
"Angels at your doorway, shaking
city dust from their feathers.
Angels in dark alleyways, feral,
a hundred eyes watching the
murderer stalk closer. Hunter
to hunted. Something very
savage in the shifting balance.
Angels as wild animals, as a height
of civilisation humanity will wear
themselves to the bone striving
for. Stop picking at constellations.
The universe is the woman down
the hall who never remembers
your name, and doesn’t care to try.
She wears faux fur coats and red
lipstick and murmurs, “Sorry, darling,
did you say something?” (You were
screaming, but that doesn’t matter.)
Guardian angels in ratty boots
and tattered leather jackets, swigging
tequila from the bottle while their
humans bump and grind. Guardian
angels in the corners of rooms
dying to touch, dying to comfort,
but stuck with their own tears
instead. Angels on rooftops, in
gutters, singing to the stars in packs.
The moon goes round. The seraphim
start shaking. And the woman down
the hall (with the lipstick and the coats)
points at you in a crowd, and laughs."