Light Filters In Read online

  Dedication

  for anyone terrified

  that it won’t get better.

  these pages

  are proof that it will.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  The Darkness Falls

  The Night Persists

  The Dawn Breaks

  The Sun Rises

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Author’s Note

  this book was not easy to write. as a result, it may not be easy to read, either. poetry started out as a diary for me. so, at the beginning of the writing process for this book, I made a pact to myself that I would be completely honest. that means nothing is censored out. I talk about mental illness, self-harm, suicide, recovery, sexual assault, abusive relationships, violence, and other issues that may not be the easiest to swallow. you may relate to pieces near the beginning. you may relate to pieces near the end. or you may not relate to any pieces at all. whatever the case, know that it’s completely normal to be overwhelmed by some of these topics. I know I was at first. I still am sometimes. take care of yourself if you need to. put down the book if you need to. reach out to me if you need to. your safety is always important. so, do whatever you need to do. asking for help is not weak, I promise.

  it’s human.

  there is nothing

  more powerful

  than a girl

  with a pen

  who is brave enough

  to use it.

  The Darkness Falls

  some people have nightmares

  of being naked in public,

  of having every inch of skin

  on display

  for the world to see.

  that used to be my nightmare too.

  but still

  here I am.

  flip these pages.

  take a look.

  lost:

  happiness.

  chapped lips,

  little crooked teeth,

  always smiling.

  last seen eating ice cream,

  dancing to background music,

  chocolate dripping down her chin.

  if found:

  please tell her

  I miss her.

  I don’t dance

  anymore.

  I can point to the very first time

  I felt alone in a crowd.

  I was eleven.

  it was summertime and

  my thoughts tasted sour,

  and I remember being confused

  because before then

  they had always been sweet.

  it was like dipping my toe

  into a pool of sadness,

  oblivious to the fact

  that I would soon be submerged.

  I don’t know who I am.

  I’m trying to look at myself

  in the bathroom mirror,

  but the shower’s running

  and the glass is all foggy.

  I’ve spent so much time

  trying to become who I should be

  that I lost myself along the way.

  I cannot tell you who I loved,

  or where, or when, or why;

  I don’t remember first encounters,

  only each goodbye.

  I push away a feeling passed

  once I know it’s gone.

  it’s far too painful, once at dusk,

  to think back on the dawn.

  I am crowded

  in an empty room.

  I guess it’s the silence,

  the emptiness,

  the nothingness.

  it pushes on me.

  it tells me you take up too much

  space.

  I reply,

  I know.

  in my dreams

  I feel his hands on me.

  when I wake up,

  I check for new bruises

  shaped like his fingertips.

  whenever I walk by him

  I instinctively drag down my sleeves,

  pull my hoodie tighter.

  the body he stained

  is always on display.

  I scrub my skin

  a little too hard

  in the shower,

  trying to get him off me,

  trying to shed any cell on my body

  he might have touched.

  sometimes I scratch.

  sometimes I peel.

  sometimes I bleed.

  this is the poem

  I never wanted to write.

  because writing makes it real,

  concrete,

  immortal.

  and I don’t want this memory

  on paper.

  I only want it erased.

  I have come to the conclusion that

  I am a walking paradox,

  a mismatched mix of innocence and experience,

  a bottle of oil and water

  constantly being shaken.

  I overthink the details.

  I miss the big picture.

  I am a perfectionist.

  I am a procrastinator.

  I have strong opinions.

  I am indecisive.

  I am stubborn.

  I apologize too much.

  it’s not physically possible

  to be like this.

  there is a reason oil and water separate

  no matter how many times

  you shake them back together.

  I am black and white dots

  in a body shaded gray,

  and I don’t know which part

  of myself is the truth anymore.

  mercury:

  my mood changes

  too fast for my brain

  to keep up with.

  sometimes, I am okay.

  I really am.

  talking,

  working,

  laughing.

  then suddenly,

  day trades places with night

  and my neurons freeze.

  I stop talking.

  I stop working.

  I stop laughing.

  all I can do

  is pray the frostbite

  doesn’t reach my heart

  before the sun rises again.

  the carousel goes round and round, a lovely place to play.

  what picture-perfect innocence to fit this autumn day.

  but no one tells the children that the spinning never slows,

  that we’re all tied to our horses; locked in at our toes.

  no one tells of desperate moments, dizzy and insane,

  this blissful show of ignorance no longer just a game.

  blinded by the pastel paint and chariots of gold,

  the slanted truth of childhood is all that they’ve been told.

  leave your brain at the door, my dear.

  from here on, we are all heart and soul.

  take off your shoes, watch your step,

  don’t touch anything too fragile.

  I am brittle and easy to break:

  be careful.

  that way, when you leave,

  you can leave without a trace.

  that way, when you’re gone,

  I won’t be

  haunted by your mud tracks

  and fingerprints.

  I can’t handle another mess to clean up.

  in a world of covered ears

  and mouths taped shut,

  this is my cry for help.

  is the sound of my fingertips

  brushing the keyboard

  loud enough?

  can you hear me? />
  I’ve begun to censor your name

  like a curse word.

  in my phone,

  your number is under

  the one who broke me.

  using your name

  would offer you pity

  and sympathy

  and understanding.

  using your name

  would make you human

  when you have only ever been

  a heartless nightmare

  to me.

  google search history:

  how to cure sadness

  chronic sadness

  what is it called when you feel more numb than sad

  why don’t I smile anymore

  how often does the average person smile

  can smiling make you happy

  why aren’t I happy

  depression symptoms

  anxiety symptoms

  suicide hotline

  how to cure depression and anxiety

  how to cure depression and anxiety without medication

  what to do if my antidepressants don’t work

  what to do if therapy doesn’t work

  are some people sad their whole lives

  what to do if you’re not happy in your own body

  what to do if you’re not happy

  what to do if you’re triggered

  alternatives to self-harm

  suicide hotline

  how bad does it have to be to be considered depression

  suicide hotline

  how to stop the thoughts

  how to stop the sadness

  how to be happy

  how to be happy

  how to be happy

  how to be happy

  how to be happy

  how to be happy

  how to be happy

  how to be happy

  how to be happy

  how to be happy

  how to be happy

  how to be happy

  I am going stir-crazy

  inside my skull,

  peeling off the wallpaper

  with short, bitten nails.

  there are no

  emergency exits here:

  I am left to

  claw myself out.

  there’s blood on the bathroom floor again,

  my mother would be ashamed.

  my head is the one that’s guilty,

  but my soul is always blamed.

  three months older, three months clean,

  I thought that I might win.

  but once again I find myself

  digging graves into my skin.

  no amount of promises

  can make or break the fight;

  do not believe that I am well

  from the sonnets that I write.

  it’s survival of the fittest,

  not everyone will thrive.

  we’re pushed so far that we go against

  the instinct to survive.

  these words are

  not polished.

  these words are

  not pure.

  these words are

  venom purged from my veins

  and poured out

  on paper.

  these words

  are

  poetic poison.

  I cower as I walk through the hallway

  like I am lost in the woods—

  dodging the people,

  dodging the trees,

  dodging the lurking faces

  behind each corner.

  I am the little girl in every fable,

  every folktale.

  the powerless child,

  the innocent face,

  red hood up and basket in hand.

  we all know what comes next.

  I catch a glimpse of the wolf in the shadows.

  the glowing eyes,

  the curling lip,

  the pointed teeth ready to attack—

  and I realize he is wearing your clothing.

  you have turned me into prey.

  and you have always been the predator.

  venus:

  can you hear my vertebrae

  cracking under the stress?

  can you see my shoulders caving in

  under the expectations?

  can you feel my skin splitting

  and the magma pouring out?

  I am nearing the inevitable.

  my spine will give out.

  my shoulders will snap.

  my skin will break down.

  I can only

  withstand so much.

  you held my wrists, propped me up, and moved me on your stage;

  all my life has been a script and you wrote every page.

  you set a backdrop, painted smiles, hid what was within;

  come one, come all, and see her now: the doll in human skin!

  someone once asked me

  what I would do

  if finding happiness made me

  unable to write anymore.

  and the answer

  is simple:

  I would gladly

  never pick up another pen.

  where is the happy?

  in elementary school,

  I would burst out laughing

  in the middle of class.

  I was loud and outgoing,

  messy

  and funny

  and happy.

  but somewhere along the line I lost it.

  the freedom.

  the innocence.

  sometimes I imagine my younger self

  and I worry she wouldn’t recognize me.

  she looks up at me with pigtails.

  there are gaps in her mouth

  where wiggly teeth have fallen out.

  where is the happy?

  she says,

  her big brown eyes open wide.

  and I never have an answer.

  I work so hard

  to be the hero.

  but then I sabotage myself,

  picking out poisoned apples

  and eating them like candy.

  I am the antagonistic

  protagonist

  of my own story.

  darkness awaits me; I hear it whispering my name,

  calling me back to the place I seem to belong.

  most people are afraid of its voice.

  not me.

  this steady sadness,

  this numbness that holds me sweetly like a lover,

  it runs through each artery like the life that never was.

  if this is my demise, then prepare me for peaceful destruction.

  I give and give

  and give,

  even when it hurts me—

  even if they’ve hurt me—

  until there’s nothing left

  of me at all.

  sacrifice is not as glamorous

  as it’s made out to be.

  copy

  imprint those around you

  onto yourself.

  become a sculpture of body parts,

  a myriad of unfamiliar fingers and teeth.

  pick and choose who you want to be,

  and stand as their mirror.

  paste

  take a model from a magazine

  and wear her like a shield.

  give yourself time for the glue to dry,

  let the eyelashes stick

  and the spot cream harden.

  remember your skin’s tape

  is not double-sided.

  cut

  rip yourself apart when you feel

  your pixelated skin is failing you.

  dig back to the bottom,

  desperately trying to find yourself again.

  slash the imperfection away.

  quit

  reach the point where your screen is frozen.

  you have tried too hard to wait it out.

  all you are is a blank paper with

  bits of plagiarized pieces

  bandaging broken margins.
r />   it only takes one press of a finger

  to shut it all down.

  “what you can do

  when you press control”

  right now, I am a rough draft;

  I am here to be

  revisited and revised.

  hard as I try,

  I am not the girl poets speak of.

  I am not made up of ocean tides

  and my heart is not a crystal drum;

  it will always be a weapon

  more than anything.

  I am an incomplete masterpiece,

  full of crossed-out words and changes.

  no one ever calls the first draft beautiful,

  and I will never be the final piece.

  go ahead and fight me, I’ll surely let you win,

  comment on my body and I’ll make myself grow thin.

  you’re digging nails into all the bruises that you kissed,

  I’m putty in your hand, but all you do is clench your fist.

  earth:

  I burn and smoke

  to keep others warm,

  forgetting that

  I need to breathe.

  I carry a first-aid kit

  wherever I go,

  forgetting that

  I need to heal.

  I give out love

  to all who will take it,

  forgetting that

  I need some for myself.

  I am dying

  in order to keep

  everyone around me alive.

  digging up your arteries

  to find proof of something more—

  I want to see blood or bone or nerves

  or anything at all

  therehastobesomethingmore

  (right?)

  a never-ending search,

  a hollow hole,

  a space inside a sentence.

  I tried to scratch under the surface,

  but you are all skin and skin and skin.

  I want so badly

  to spill out my soul

  onto these pages,

  but some things

  are stuck.

  some memories

  cling to the sides

  of my spirit

  no matter how much

  I try to scrape them out.

  I don’t remember when