They ask me, How did you get here? Can’t you see it on my body?
The Libyan Desert red with immigrant bodies, the Gulf of
Aden bloated, the city of Rome with no jacket. I hope the
journey meant more than miles, because all my children are in
the water. I thought the sea was safer than the land. I want to
make love, but my hair smells of war and running and running. I
want to lie down, but these countries are like uncles who touch
you when you’re young and asleep. Look at all these borders
foaming at the mouth with bodies broken and desperate. I’m the
color of hot sun on my face; my mother’s remains were never
buried. I spent days and nights in the stomach of the truck; I did
not come out the same. Sometimes, it feels like someone else is
wearing my body
— Warsan Shire, Conversations about Home (at the Deportation Center)
Source: http://www.viperslang,tumblr.com