I belong deeply to myself.

I think in Somali, I cuss in Somali, when I'm afraid I reach for somali and this language is very rich, very filling. It's an unflinching language; the crudest most terrible things sound perfectly normal in Somali.

There is no intimacy like that between two women who have chosen to be sisters.

I won't glorify or romanticise heartbreak, for me it was a kind of death and I was forced to keep living.

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.

I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel once. I'm bloated with language I can’t afford to forget.

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.