Kiss of Broken Glass Read Online Free PDF Page B

E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
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But at Least I’m Not an Idiot
    Like Tara who #cut4sid.
    That all started because some troll
    tweeted about how Sid Riff
    was smoking pot instead of
    recording albums like a hottie should,
    and some fans decided to cut themselves
    and post pictures to show Sid how sad they were
    that he was turning into a bad person
    and making their whole lives a lie.
    24 hours
    30,000 messages
    and 23 million impressions later,
    Tara came to school with the words
    cut4sid carved into her thigh
    and a smile as wide as Texas
    because she’d been retweeted
    4,962 times.
    It was the highlight of her year.
    And the funny thing is,
    she doesn’t even like Sid Riff.
    But that’s the kind of thing
    competitive cutters do.
    And that’s exactly what my mother
    would never understand.
    How cutting’s everywhere now.
    On a whole new level.
    Not just in the closet.
    Sometimes people do it because
    of their deep, dark secrets,
    or to fit in with friends,
    or to piss off parents,
    or to be razor rock-stars.
    But who cares why we do it.
    It’s a stupid question.
    So when my mother asks,
    I don’t even answer.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
By the Time My Mother Leaves
    The urge to cut is so strong
    it feels like Saran Wrap around my brain.
    No other thoughts getting in or out.
    If I was at home right now
    I’d bolt up the stairs,
    three at a time,
    not looking back,
    until I got to the bathroom,
    where I’d lock the door,
    turn on the shower,
    hover over the sink and
    slice ,
                slice ,
                            slice .
    God I miss that feeling!
    The rush.
    The calm.
    The way the blood pools warm at first
    then cools like morning dew on slivered skin.
    The sway.
    The swirl.
    The way the crimson dances ‘round the bowl
    then trickles tiny teardrops down the drain.
    The crimp.
    The curl.
    The sound Saran Wrap makes as it unsticks
    and finally lets the air back to my brain.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
Skylar Notices Me
    “Try this instead,” she says.
    And then she shows me how to snap
    a rubber band against my wrist.
    It’s not as good as cutting.
    But somehow the steady rubber sting
    settles down my nerves enough to draw.
    I look at my limp, leaking girl
    lying worthless on the paper.
    She deserves hands, I think.
    To wave hello.
    To catch bouquets.
    To squeeze palm to palm.
    Not hands to hold a blade.
    But I can’t seem to draw them right.
    They’re lifeless, unnatural, cold.
    They make me want to tear the paper up.
    So I sketch the moon instead.
    Moons are easy.
    A white, unblinking eye
    watching through the window.
    Like a god who sees bad things
    happening to good people every day
    but doesn’t even care.
    Skylar glances at my drawing.
    She’s writing a poem,
    counting syllables on her fingers
    one by one.
    Skylar thinks God does care.
    Even when it doesn’t feel like it.
    And she’s pretty sure that one day
    God will lift all the pain right off her
    and toss it aside like an old jacket.
    But for now, she’s wearing it tight.
    Zipped up to the chin.
    Just like me.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
Skylar Shows Me Her Poem
    Silent sobbing. No one sees.
    Weeping like the willow trees.
    Feel my heart about to pop.
    Need to make the aching stop.
    See moon’s shimmer softly pass.
    On the shards of broken glass.
    It’s an ekphrastic poem.
    That’s what Skylar calls it.
    She says that means the poem
    was inspired by a piece of artwork.
    My artwork.
    I tell her that ekphrastic
    is the dumbest word I’ve ever heard.
    It doesn’t sound very poetic to me.
    More like a hairball that the cat