Yrsa Daley Ward Quotes

Self expression is a tricky thing. Just as you start to feel comfortable with yourself after years of not, you then have to justify yourself to other people.

You will come away bruised. You will come away bruised but this will give you poetry.

If you are afraid to write it, that's a good sign. I suppose you know when you're writing the truth when you're terrified.

The pastor makes twenty-four references to hell in the sermon at church and forgets to talk about love.

It's never too late to be wise. Find someone who makes your feel like you're coming home.

and anyway, there will always be your breath which, hard as you try, you cant do without you cant run away from. There will always your heart beating stronger and louder the harder, the further you run.

Smiling at devils is a useful, learned thing.

The reason for leaving sometimes is to return. Simply to return.

Maybe your life will work. Most likely it won't at first but that will give you poetry.

If I’m entirely honest, and you say I must be I want to stay with you all afternoon evening, night and tomorrow pressed into you so tightly that we don’t know whose belly made what sound, whose heart it is that is thumping like that until I don’t know if the sweat on my chest is yours or mine or ours.

Loving someone who hates themselves is a special kind of violence. A fight inside the bones. A war within the blood.

You are a beautiful danger. Do not force me to open up. Some books are bound tightly for years for reasons.

It's never too late to be wise. See how your spirit has been fermenting.

Remember on the right night and under the right light any idea can seem like a good one and love love is mostly ill advised but always brave.

It is love. But I will not stay. My father was a long dark fairytale too.

When the blood in your body is weary to flow, when your bones are heavy though hollow if you have made it past thirty celebrate and if you haven't yet, rejoice. Know that there is a time coming in your life when dirt settles and the patterns forma picture.

You are one of life's anomalies and this is how I fell.

You can't quell depression by making love. But we tried. But we tried, oh, we did.

Just because you do it doesn’t mean you always will.

The worst thing about somebody who betrays you, somebody who turns out to be a completely different person to whom you first thought, is the love that you still feel in your heart for them, embedded so deeply into the narrow spaces of yourself that you cannot access it to try and remove it. He

You may have learned from your mother or any other hunted woman. Smiling at devils is a useful learned thing. Swallowing discomfort down in spades. Holding it tight in your belly. Ageing on the inside only. Keeping it forever sexy.

intro I am the tall dark stranger those warnings prepared you for.

The most important thing to do is not to worry. The lines on your face will never stop the sun from coming up. Your tears cannot affect the weather.

plus there is that feeling you get when you catch up with yourself.

what is now will soon be past Just because you do it doesn’t mean you always will. Whether you’re dancing dust or breathing light you’re never exactly the same, twice.

and I think about these parents of ours our makers our stars. (such impossible, complex stars.) How they came, exploded, and fell away. They are not ours, the stars, and have never been.

Do not go too far for peace and quiet do not run too far because the country can be as loud as the city too noisy in its stillness and anyway, there will always be your breath which, hard as you try, you cant do without you cant run away from. There will always be your heart beating stronger and louder the harder, the further you run.

See, they never held you back. It was you, only you.

You may not run away from the thing that you are. because it comes and comes and comes as sure as you breathe. As certain. The thing is deep inside your linings, way down in the marrow.

Thank Goodness I have nearly unlearned folding my desire into itself being afraid to claim it.

Truth is a beauty, whether pretty or not. Love doesn't always mean you should stay. Sometimes the truth has to punch you, twice. Love doesn't always mean you should stay.

Before you are dismantled, fixed and broke again you are not yet a lover.

See, nobody warns you about yourself. The red in your eye. The trap in your mouth. The person who hurts you the most in the end will be you. Almost every time, you. You'd better learn to forgive yourself. Forgive yourself instantly. It's a skill you're going to need until you die.

Thank heavens you’re resetting ever setting and resetting.

There are not nearly enough distractions and it can all get too bloody silent, which leaves room for dangerous things, like thinking. I

something about the way black women hold your heart. You can leave them all you like but you can’t stay gone.

Do not shout for silence. do not shout too loud there will always be birds outside a closed window

I suppose you know you’re writing the truth when you’re terrified.

Is life hidden in the lining of our seams? Are we wearing it inside out?

You’re a lost thing.

I cannot pull my mind off you even though I do not trust your hands.

Just because you do it doesn’t mean you always will. Whether you’re dancing dust or breathing light you’re never exactly the same, twice.

My thoughts about you are frightening but precise. I can see the house on the hill where we grow our own vegetables out back and drink warm wine out of jam jars and sing songs in the kitchen until the sun comes up

This fettered concept of motherhood is outdated. You can go and come back and go and come back and I shall always be here. I shall always be here. That is real Love for you, and don’t let anyone tell you any different.

I am somewhere else now. I am part human, part metaphysics, and I still haven't worked out which parts of me are which. I love this new form. I can feel space traveling through me. I am porous and wondrous and bold ... It's not that I loved to leave, rather that staying was always completely impossible.

Your tears cannot affect the weather. There are wars going on. The one in your body is the only one you can be sure of losing or winning, then losing again. You

If you were married to yourself could you stay with yourself? My house would be frightening and wild.

You are an accident in waiting. The type of accident with casualties spanning from me to you and here to there, a potential tragedy, a stunning unborn disaster.

We're thinking, does life owe us anything. Did we get it wrong? And time is an animal, man. The years. Time is killing us it has us in its teeth.

What turns the milk sky pink? Is it the sins of the world, bleeding up into the atmosphere reddening the clouds up above or is it love. Could it be love? Jesus Christ, can there be love? There will be more love, says the sky, There will be more love.

you make me feel like myself again. Myself before I had any solid reasons to be anything else. Last night you gave me space to dream bigger than the single bed. You laughed in your sleep and I cried in mine and

Time is an illusion, say the scientists. It is molecular, it is bendable or liquid, it is soldered metal; or it is droplets of memory. I imagine it looks like mercury, silver and elusive...Burn all the clocks. I am free.

Do the feelings ever leave? Or do you just learn to wrap them up into something to wear?

No, it is just a big feeling. One of those crazy backed up against the wall feelings, where every position hurts.” He

Every time I travel, I meet myself a little more.

Know that there is a time coming in your life when dirt settles and the patterns form a picture.

It wasn’t perfect. It isn’t now. I still have days when I want to exit the system quicker then you can say, “don’t you dare give up now”, and you still have days where you can’t even taste the sweetness in raw honey and neither one of us believes in pills. Days when I so want to kiss you but your mouth is sour and my thoughts are bitter and I’m angry…just mad, just crazy with it all. But we are each others home sweet home, Love. The roof is screwed on too tight at times and the walls of our purple house can pinch a little but my God, they are always warm.

My mother is with me most nights, though. She was is my first love. I dream her fiercely and in those dreams I love her and get angry and shake her and bite, grind my teeth and wake up, full of everything.

when it is but it ain't Some of us love badly. Sometimes the love is the type of love that implodes. Folds in on itself. Eats its insides. Turns wine to poison. Behaves poorly in restaurants. Drinks. Kisses other people. Comes back to your bed at 4am smelling like everything outside. Asks about your ex. Is jealous of your ex. Thinks everyone a rival. Some of us love others badly, love ourselves worse. Some of us love horrid, love beastly. Love sick love anti light. Sometimes the love can’t go home at night, can’t sleep with itself, cannot contain itself, catches fire, destroys the stomach, strips buildings, goes missing. Punches. Smashes heirlooms. Tells lies. The best lies. F*s around. Writes poems, impresses people. Chases lovers into corners. Leaves them longing. Sea sick. Says yes. Means anything but. Tricks the body. Kills the body. Dances wild and walks away, smiling.

Loving someone who hates themselves is a special kind of violence. A fight inside the bones. A war within the blood.

with the realisation that most things are futile and get the sudden urge to end it all don’t stop.

I have imagined you and maybe you have imagined me.

I am porous. I am bold. I am a space-time traveling expert.

what love isn’t It is not a five star stay. It is not compliments and it is never ever flattery. It is solid. Not sweet but always nutritious always herb, always salt. Sometimes grit. It is now and till the end. It is never a slither, never a little it is a full serving it is much too much and real never pretty or clean. It stinks - you can smell it coming it is weight it is weight and it is too heavy to feel good sometimes. It is discomfort - it is not what the films say. Only songs get it right it is irregular it is difficult and always, always surprising.

Look for yourself, because it never helps to hear from anyone else.

See that just outside there are people lined streets that are emptier than your insides, skies darker than your own. Look

If you’re afraid to write it, that’s a good sign. I suppose you know you’re writing the truth when you’re terrified.

Just like that, something shifts and you know something and he knows something but nobody knows for sure. You have something to trade and you're not sorry.

I can only see things in fits and starts. I cannot have a family; freedom is all I need. I need to be free to catch up with myself.

Love. It is not a five-star stay. It is not compliments and it is never ever flattery. It is solid. Not sweet but always nutritious always herb, always salt. Sometimes grit.

Some of us love others badly, love ourselves worse. Some of us love horrid, love beastly, love sick, love anti light. Sometimes the love can’t go home at night, can’t sleep with itself, cannot contain itself, catches fire, destroys the belly, strips buildings, goes missing. Punches. Smashes heirlooms. Tells lies. The best lies.

Some of us love badly. Sometimes the love is the type of love that implodes. Folds in on itself. Eats its insides. Turns wine to poison. Behaves poorly in restaurants. Drinks. Kisses other people. Comes back to your bed at four a.m. smelling like everything outside. Asks about your ex. Is jealous of your ex. Thinks everyone a rival.

According to you, people like me shouldn’t go into places like this or be around people like these but you don’t know the half of it. The brightest of stars, frankly, are just a load of hot air and diamonds, sadly, were just formed from dust and rock and the butterfly, remember, used to crawl on its belly and tiny legs through the dirt.

Artichokes Until you had been the last ones sitting in the cafe on the corner and she has kissed the dark rum from the rim of your glass and schooled you in the art of eating artichokes until then, you are not yet a woman. Until you put soft leaf to lip touch tongue to flesh, bite the lobe, swallow the juice she says will purify you until you open it up, sigh at the color, see it’s very middle and learn what fingers are best at until you reach further still into that thick, hot heart life has not yet started. Before you had been promised. Before she is a liar. Before you are dismantled, fixed and broke again you are not yet a lover. Remember on the right night and under the right light any idea can seem like a good one and love love is mostly ill-advised but always brave. The most important thing to do is not to worry. The lines on your face will never stop the sun from coming up. Your tears cannot affect the weather. There are wars going on. The one in your body is the only one you can be sure of losing or winning, then losing again. You drink more water than rum these days, don’t you? But you drink to her memory, don’t you? And you only take artichokes in salad. Never whole. Not in a cafe on a dusky street at midnight. Not with her. Never with her, or anyone like her.

danger. Do not force me to open up. Some books are bound tightly for years for reasons. Some books are burned for their own good, Love. Stop wearing clothes the way that you do. Don’t allow them to cling to your body like that. Do not follow these effortless fashions where everything looks just so, because, really...who could resist such a thing? The Lord knows you are beautiful and unfair. I think perhaps you should spare a thought, dear, for those who are sick over you, burning up with you, damp with you. You know what you do. You’re a slow fever. Don’t be so very engaging, amusing or witty or bright.

You may not run away from the thing that you are because it comes and comes and comes as sure as you breathe. As certain. The thing is deep inside your linings, way down in the marrow. people have a lot of words for it. There are ten thousand names for it and you. Wherever you are , it catches you up. It catches you in South Africa. Wherever you are and whatever it is, the terrible is trying to grip you and sometimes you're walking down the street and it tries to knock you clean off your feet and send you right underground. The terrible comes like a bang in the night. It takes a drink and several more and comes to plague you in the morning; it damn near poisons you with all the drink it needs to stay alive. it toys with you the morning after - stays the entire day, squeezing you by the shoulders, making your hands shake. it smiles at you, the terrible. Sitting, arms folded, in the corner of the room. It just can't help itself. It just needs friends. It's such a lonely thing. The terrible needs to eat and it eats whole lives up in one sitting. The terrible claps its terrible hands and everything falls right through them. The terrible is here one month and gone for a while until the middle of the next, allowing you to catch your breath - and just when you almost think everything is okay and when you're not over or under-breathing, it surprises you in the middle of the night again.

and I think about these parents of ours our makers our stars. (Such impossible, complex stars.) How they came, exploded, and fell away.

You are a beautiful danger. Do not force me to open up. Some books are bound tightly for years for reasons. Some books are burned for their own good, Love.

You’re a slow fever. Don’t be so very engaging, amusing or witty or bright. You are causing confusion and jams in tight spaces. You are an accident in waiting. The type of accident with casualties spanning from me to you and here to there, a potential tragedy, a stunning unborn disaster.

Should I touch you, I will suffer and you will suffer and she will suffer. You are a danger zone. I must not enter. I should not enter. But I might.

Women who were brought up devout and fearful get stirred, like anyone else. Want men. Want other women. Stink under the arms at the end of the day. Get that all too familiar mix of fear and discontent in the night. Want to do the things that they Must Not Do. Those dirty, bloody attractive things.

She puts cinnamon on tomatoes white pepper on carrots mustard seeds on unlikely things and takes wine and ice with breakfast. She sits awake at night and dreams with open eyes

Staying forever far from home completely, completely at sea. Knowing God has cut me out jagged, loose, wild.

Core loneliness is a terrible thing.

Remember on the right night and under the right light any idea can seem like a good one and love love is mostly ill-advised but always brave.

Truth is a beauty, whether pretty or not. Love doesn’t always mean you should stay. Sometimes the truth has to punch you, twice. Love doesn’t always mean you should stay.

Loving someone who hates themselves is a special kind of violence. A fight inside the bones. A war within the blood.

But she is old and she has Jesus. And we’ve been too busy for Jesus. “That

You can’t quell depression by making love. But we tried. But

You will come to know more and understand that you know even less. This is only the very beginning.

...It is good to feel this conflict, this vibrant sign of budding and wanting. The growing unease is how to know that you are not living your deepest wishes. That you are not in alignment with your inner turth.

Know that if you are hungry for something but you can’t think what you are, more often than not, only love-thirsty only bored.

I dreamed you beautiful. You are nothing beautiful. But three years and I can’t clean you off my skin.

Come, let us talk with our closed-up throats, crushed hearts and wet eyes. Quickly, because when you get that metallic taste on your tongue and teeth it means trouble and when I get that light feeling in the space between the back of my eyes and my skull it means hell.

Just as you start to feel comfortable with yourself after years of not, you then have to justify yourself to other people.

Be intentional and you will begin to be happy with what you have. Try to do everything and you will be happy with nothing.

As if we never learned to eroticize our rage, to block out the screaming of the gut.

You'd better learn to forgive yourself. Forgive yourself instantly. It's a skill you're going to need until you die.

You are a beautiful danger. Do not force me to open up. Some books are bound tightly for years for reasons.

and I think about these parents of ours our makers our stars. (Such impossible, complex stars.) How they came, exploded, and fell away.