our men do not belong. even my own father, left one afternoon, is not mine. my brother is in prison, is not mine. my uncles, they go back home and they are shot in the head, are not mine. my cousins stabbed in the street for being too black or not black enough, are not mine. then the men we try to love, say we carry too much loss, wear too much black, are too heavy to be around, much too sad to love. then they leave and we mourn them too. is that what we’re here for? to sit at kitchen tables, sharing stories of the ones who died, the ones of who left and the ones who were taken by the police, or by drugs, or by illness or by other women. it makes no sense. look at your skin, look at her mouth, these lips, those eyes, my god, listen to that laugh. the only darkness we should allow into our lives is the night, and even then, we have the moon.
Warsan Shire (via eddyousuf)
Me after 15 minutes of studying
(Source: manda, via idiots-all-around-me)
