Tell me again about the day you whispered that to me and became my forever human….And I will tell you about that strange , remote planet of violet moons where the day lasted 72 hours and was blocked on repeat. Mornings had the shape of mugs and afternoons the warmth of blankets. Where the skin  was always warm because another skin was touching it. Where smiling made the day worth waking up. And the fox slept every afternoon because sleep meant spooning. And words came out from everywhere, like fireflies. They spoke in words, in eyes, in smells and touch. And still had things to say….The embrace was a cocoon of safety and rest. And for a countless numbers of seconds, nothing else mattered.

some sort of exupery



Bedtime story:

“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)

Loyalty of our shadows


Your shadow spilt on grey asphalt
Elongated and  colourless
A faceless shape flowing as you move.
Familiar gestures on a body resembling corpses drawn after accidents.
Bizarre yet desirable.
Untouchable like our own shadows
ever present in their loyal pursuit,
like dogs stubbornly tailing.
The unquestionable loyalty of the self.