to save me.
this time,
I don’t need proof
that I am lovable—
I know I am.
this time,
maybe I can do it right.
I spent so long
trying not to drown.
coughing up saltwater
feasting on adrenaline
kicking my legs,
even when my calves cramped
even when my feet became numb
even when I realized
no lifeboat was on its way.
I am still in the ocean.
there is still no lifeboat.
but I am not drowning.
my head is tilted back.
my legs are lifted up to the surface.
I see pink clouds in the sky.
if you think you are drowning,
just remember:
you float in water.
this year,
I fell in love with myself.
I told myself
thank you.
I’m sorry.
it’s okay.
thank you for fighting to survive
even when I don’t want to.
I’m sorry I blame you
for things you can’t control.
it’s okay that you’re not perfect
I will love you anyway.
now,
I look at my face in the mirror
instead of my body.
you are
the most important person
in my life.
I am the sunday crossword
and here you are,
pen uncapped.
fill me in.
even if the answers are wrong,
we can worry
about that later.
to my past self:
night cannot last forever.
the moon is only bright
because it’s reflecting the sun.
and there is a sun,
and you will live to see it.
to my future self:
day cannot last forever.
I know happiness is not
a final destination
or a resting place.
that is okay.
it is more than okay.
I am not your
beautiful broken mess
to clean up.
my mental illness is not
a riddle for you
to solve,
a decoded message for you
to unscramble.
I already know the answer:
therapy.
and medication.
and pouring out my thoughts
in ink instead of blood.
you are not the answer.
I am.
be grateful that
time will heal
the wounds but
leave the scars.
how else will you
remember all that
you’ve survived?
the most powerful word
in the english language is
no.
it is refusal
and control
and aggression
and authority.
do you still love me?
no.
are you comfortable with this?
no.
do you want to live like this forever?
no.
of saying no
being selfish
making my own decisions.
but there is strength in refusal.
there is revolution in authority.
there is freedom in control.
so,
savor your strength.
revel in your revolution.
follow your freedom.
say
no.
freckles on your cheek
I try to connect the dots
with calloused fingers
new constellations
little dipper lower lips
across my forehead
galaxies collide
a new night sky, star to star
twin earth signs as one.
I am done
being delicate.
as a girl,
I was taught
to be sweet,
to be dainty,
to fold into myself
until I was nothing
more than crumpled paper.
this is my unfolding.
I will use gunpowder
to set my makeup
and gasoline
as my perfume.
next time you try to
burn me at the stake,
I will burn back.
I will start a fire
you cannot control.
my professor tells the class
all poetry is about poetry.
when I was fourteen
and felt the world closing in,
I opened a journal
and picked up a pen.
my professor tells the class
all poetry is about poetry.
when I was eleven
and learning to play guitar,
I started writing songs.
it was frustrating:
I couldn’t think of melodies
even when the words came so easily.
my professor tells the class
all poetry is about poetry.
when I was nine
I heard a walt whitman poem
so beautiful that I grabbed a notebook
and started structuring
mini stanzas in it.
I still have that notebook,
in my desk drawer.
my professor tells the class
all poetry is about poetry.
I think maybe he’s right.
this is chalkboard love.
you’re on my skin, powdered out
in sketched skeletons.
find me blank once more.
fill in the empty spaces,
time and time again.
hide the eraser.
let’s lose ourselves in our hands,
residue and all.
don’t ask for respect;
demand it.
don’t look for opportunity;
grab it.
don’t add to the world;
change it.
this is the excavation
of my adolescence.
I go layer by layer,
square by square,
looking over every piece
of cracked pottery
and every stray bone.
I spent so long
burying the ruins
under dirt and sand
and anything else I could find.
trying to pretend
it never happened
in the first place.
but it did happen,
and these are the ruins
I built my life
on top of.
so now,
I dig.
write a poem.
cut it out.
tape it onto this page.
my story is not complete
without pieces from
the people who
kept it going.
a (self) love poem:
she picks at her nails
when she gets nervous,
but I know she’s
trying to stop.
her eyes look
brown,
but turn to
caramel in the light.
she can stop the world
with just one
click of her pen.
it took me
eighteen whole years
to realize how
beautiful she is;
to see the light in her laugh,
the power in her poise,
the wrath in her writing.
but now
I see it.
and if she ever forgets
,
I want her to come back here,
back to this page.
she needs to know I love her.
when I think of love,
I think of pluto and charon,
the dwarf planet and its moon.
she does not allow her life
to revolve around his.
instead, she takes his hand
and they orbit each other,
moving through the night sky.
both on their own paths,
but pulled together
as they tumble through the nothingness.
when I think of love,
I think of gravity working both ways.
I will not call myself the earth,
and you the sun.
I do not orbit around you,
helplessly falling and spinning
around you as the center of my universe.
that is not love.
love is when
I am pulled toward you
and you are pulled toward me.
this is me stepping into
your gravitational field.
not to orbit around you,
but with you.
some habits
I am still unlearning.
sometimes I still stop myself
before putting on a short-sleeved shirt.
and sometimes I run my fingers along my arm,
expecting to feel scabs.
but there aren’t scabs anymore.
sometimes unlearning
is so much more important
than learning.
your writing saved my life,
a girl messages me.
thank you,
I type back.
it saved mine too.
we are made of
more than just
stardust
and moonlight
and poetry.
there is dirt inside of us.
there is stomach lining
and yards of small intestine,
urea and bile
and hydrochloric acid
and poetry.
so much poetry.
the ugly kind of poetry,
the kind that burns
on the way down
and hurts twice as bad
on the way back up.
it is not pretty.
it is not poetic.
but it’s there,
inside all of us.
we are made of
spinal fluid
and bacteria
and cytoplasm.
and poetry.
so much poetry.
I am not pretty.
I have never been pure
or soft
or sweet.
I am beautiful.
dirt still on my shoulder
as I rise from the ground.
scars forming and healing
like galaxies over my skin.
I am beautiful
in the way I fought back
when I was buried.
I turned the dirt and mud
into soil,
and grew.
Acknowledgments
to my parents for not questioning the sixteen-year-old girl who announced she was going to publish a book one night at dinner. she doesn’t say it often, but she appreciates everything you’ve done for her over the years.
to andrea barzvi and penny moore for believing I could write a book long before I believed it myself. thank you for being patient with me, fighting for me, and generally just being the best agents anyone could ever ask for.
to sara sargent and the team at harper children’s for taking a leap of faith on a random teenager from the internet and hoping for the best. I’m eternally grateful for everything you’ve put into this book.
to natalie farina, nicole jakymiw, and sue silver for making high school english class a safe place for me to try, fail, learn, and grow as a writer.
to my hometown disney princesses for allowing me to be 100% myself, 100% of the time. thank you for being the most kindhearted and supportive group of girls I have ever met.
to signe, alexa, catarine, sarah, ashley, jaden, and all the other people on instagram who have been endlessly supporting me and my work over the last few years.
and of course, to you. thank you for reading about my dramatic and messy teenage years. thank you for taking these heavy and difficult topics seriously. but most of all, thank you for making me realize that I was never alone throughout all of this. thank you.
About the Author
Photo by ACV Photography
CAROLINE KAUFMAN—known as @poeticpoison on Instagram—began writing poetry when she was thirteen years old as a means of coping with her depression. A year later, she started posting it online, and what started as a personal way to combat mental illness eventually became an account with hundreds of thousands of followers across social media. Caroline grew up in Westchester, New York, and is currently a student at Harvard University. In the future, she hopes to attend medical school and continue growing as a writer.
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Copyright
LIGHT FILTERS IN: POEMS. Copyright © 2018 by Caroline Kaufman. Illustrations © 2018 by Yelena Bryksenkova. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
Cover art by Yelena Bryksenkova
Cover design by Jenna Stempel-Lobell
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018938080
Digital Edition JUNE 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-284469-9
Version 05042018
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-284468-2
1819202122PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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