Kiss of Broken Glass Read Online Free PDF

asked.
    But—”how’s the food?”
    Like I’m at summer camp?
    Please!
    And now Mom’s going through that whole
    breathe-deep-and-count-to-ten crap
    like it says to do in the tough-love book
    she always forgets in the bathroom.
    Before long, she starts quoting chapter three:
    “Blahblahblahblahblahblahblah . . .”
    And then there it is:
    Bad choices.
    I knew she would say it.
    That’s the book’s favorite phrase.
    She grits it between her teeth
    like a fat wad of bubble gum
    so the other words won’t slip out.
    The ones she really wants to say.
    Like how I’m such a huge disappointment
    and why can’t I be more like my sister?
    I want to tell her,
    Hey Mom, I’ve got news for you:
    A hard-boiled egg instead of chocolate cake?
    (That’s a bad choice.)
    Vampire Diaries instead of Supernatural ?
    (Bad choice.)
    Plastic instead of paper?
    (Bad choice.)
    But shredding your arm with a razor blade
    and getting Baker Acted like a psycho?
    That’s not a bad choice , Mom.
    That’s a freaking disaster!
    But just when I’m about
    to go off on her, I start to feel it.
    The way my cuts tighten up
    like Grandma’s arthritic fingers
    right before a storm.
    I guess I should’ve mentioned
    how my scars can tell the weather.
    Only not hurricanes or tornadoes.
    More like the emotional weather.
    Like when Mom’s waterworks
    are about to spill.
    So even before it happens,
    I know her lips are gonna quiver
    and the creases on her forehead
    are getting ready to bunch up.
    And then out comes the downpour.
    A torrential ten-Kleenex typhoon.
    Luckily her crying sort of waters down
    the rest of the tough-love words:
    Foolish.
    Dangerous.
    Serious consequences.
    After a while, the storm blows over.
    Mom’s hands puddle in her lap
    and her head droops like a branch
    still heavy with rain.
    Great.
    Now I’m gonna have to hug her and shit.
    And when I do, she’s probably gonna
    whisper that question in my ear.
    The one I can’t answer.
    Why, Kenna? Why?

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    HarperCollins Publishers
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Deep, Dark Secret
    It would be so much easier if I had one.
    Like if I thought I caused
            my brother’s illness,
               my boyfriend’s suicide,
                  my parent’s death.
    Like if I had
            an alcoholic father,
               a bipolar mother,
                  a secret abortion.
    Like if I’d been
            molested,
               abused,
                  stalked.
    Like just about ANYTHING!
    Then maybe this would make more sense
    and I could answer the question—
    Why?
    But here’s the thing.
    I don’t have any deep, dark secrets.
    Not like that anyway.
    My life’s not some riveting novel
    where you rush through the pages
    to get to the end and find out
    what horrific, repressed memory
    caused me to cut.
    The fact is,
    I’ve had a pretty ordinary childhood.
    Boring? (Yes.)
    Predictable? (Yes.)
    But stitch-worthy? (No.)
    So I guess that brings me to the real secret.
    The deepest, darkest kind there is.
    I’ve been cutting for absolutely no reason at all.

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    HarperCollins Publishers
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And That Makes It a Billion Times Worse
    Because that means I’m just a copycutter.
    A follower who did it to fit in.
    And now I can’t stop.
    I bet if my IQ was even
    a pimple-bump above average,
    I would’ve thought of that
    before I made the first cut.
    But I didn’t think.
    About anything.
    Except—
    my perpetually perfect sister
    my Judge Judy mother
    my Piglet father
    my no-sprinkles future
    my incurable case of Ordinary
    the sting of being alone
    and the rush of being accepted.
    On second thought,
    maybe it’s the little problems
    that pile up the worst.
    Deeper and darker.
    One after another.
    Until there’s no light at all.

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