kai-pea
under my bed
clear skies, the perfect latte, staying in bed all day, being outside all day, warm ocean, cool sand, the unexpected, anything throught provoking, the ability to find beauty
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If I'm flying solo at least I'm flying free
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Some day soon, perhaps in forty years, there will be no one alive who has ever known me. That’s when I will be truly dead - when I exist in no one’s memory. I thought a lot about how someone very old is the last living individual to have known some person or cluster of people. When that person dies, the whole cluster dies,too, vanishes from the living memory. I wonder who that person will be for me. Whose death will make me truly dead?
(via psychofactz)
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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)
I love this so much
(via ti-bacio)
god I love days like these
(via thefreshprinceofbel-air)
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Two years later
A girl sits in front of her ex lover.
He doesn’t say a word
And her heart doesn’t ache for him anymore.
Her hair is longer than it’s ever been.
She is even more beautiful than the day he left her.
And at that moment,
He panics.
He lost her.
And he can never have her back.
He can just watch her be beautiful
And in love
With someone else.
Zienab Hamdan - The day when the tables turn
(via moonlyaffairs)
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I am not a puzzle to be solved.
I am someone to be experienced-
a soul to be tasted
jenn satsune (via creatingaquietmind)
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The beauty is an illusion, and also a warning: there’s a dark side to beauty, as with poisonous butterflies.
Margaret Atwood, Stone Mattress: Nine Tales (via wordsnquotes)
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Photo
Haitian immigrant Abner Louima was attacked and raped by white police officers in 1997. The case became a national symbol of police brutality and fed perceptions that New York City police officers were harassing or abusing young black men as part a citywide crackdown on crime.
The case also marked the beginning of the unraveling of Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani’s relationship with the black community in New York. That relationship would deteriorate even further, after the police shot two unarmed black men, Amadou Diallo in February 1999 and Patrick Dorismondin 2000.
This banned cover from The New Yorker subtly shows his prejudice. The sketch is by Harry Bliss.
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Fun fact
In 49 I repeat FORTY FUCKING NINE states you can kill a trans person and use the “trans panic defense” as your reason for fucking killing someone like me and IT ACTUALLY WORKS. My life is nothing as long as the person who killed me was scared enough to fucking murder me.
Who should really be the scared one here?
Marriage equality is great and all but FUCK
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