• 23rd April
    2014
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  • 23rd April
    2014
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Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.
Kait Rokowski (A Good Day)

(Source: justsingyourlifeaway, via ekom-aka-makoma)

  • 22nd April
    2014
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  • 21st April
    2014
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  • 21st April
    2014
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  • 21st April
    2014
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  • 21st April
    2014
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  • 21st April
    2014
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He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.
Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera (via lonequixote)

(via ethiopienne)

  • 21st April
    2014
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The heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves
as though we were drowning inside our hearts
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.
Pablo Neruda, from “Nothing But Death,” translated by Robert Bly. (via literarymiscellany)

(via alienlandings)

  • 21st April
    2014
  • 21
We have to consciously study how to be tender with each other until it becomes a habit because what was native has been stolen from us, the love of Black women for each other.
Audre Lorde (via loquence)

(via natou-manjang)

  • 21st April
    2014
  • 21

youngblackandvegan:

curvellas:

being a carefree black girl has nothing to do with actually having no cares. to me it literally just means being alive and carving out tiny pockets of happiness and freedom in this shitty ass society that is trying to mentally destroy you for existing.

amen

(via ethiopienne)

  • 21st April
    2014
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  • 21st April
    2014
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  • 21st April
    2014
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  • 20th April
    2014
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