Kiss of Broken Glass by Madeleine Kuderick Read Free Book Online Page A

or cold knob,
    no temperature dial,
    just a single silver square
    that says On/Off
    like a light switch,
    and when I press it
    the drops that spill
    like lukewarm milk
    aren’t even as hot as my tears.
    I feel my lips start to quiver,
    and my shoulders shake.
    Then my heart splits open
    and the words tumble out
    like bricks.
    “How could Rennie say that?
    I thought she was my friend.
    My sister.”
    But nobody answers.
    Not even my own echo.
    The shower shuts off automatically,
    and I’m still sobbing, watching
    ribbons of water slide down my skin.
    The drops glance over the scars on my hips,
    and ricochet past the cuts on my thighs,
    and bounce off the red flippy lines on my ankles
    like balls in a pinball machine.
    I’m an outcast,
               a loser,
                     a nothing.
    I step out of the shower and drag
    the towel across my body, but
    I can’t look at myself anymore,
    because every inch of rejected skin
    reminds me of the awful truth:
    Now I have more scars than friends.

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All I Want To Do
    Is sleep and sleep and
    sleepandsleepandsleepand
    sleepandsleepandsleepand
    sleepandsleepandsleepand
    sleepandsleepandsleepand
    sleepandsleepandsleepand
    sleepandsleepandsleepand
    sleepandsleepandsleepand
    sleepandsleepandsleepand
    sleepandsleepandsleep . . .
    But I’m the kind of tired
    that sleeping doesn’t fix.

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Ten Things Rennie Never Told Me
    That cuts multiply like freaking rabbits.
    That no skin is sacred.
    That hugs hurt.
    That becoming a pathological liar is a requirement.
    That guilt feels like being buried alive.
    That long sleeves ride up at the worst possible moment.
    That being called emo sucks.
    That cutting can get you Baker Acted in Florida.
    That people are disposable.
    And that one day, she’d get rid of me.

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Bullhorn Brings a Tray to My Room
    She tells me I need to eat.
    Then she stands there waiting,
    like applesauce will solve everything.
    I stare at the ham sandwich cut diagonally.
    The sticks of marbled string cheese.
    The bunch of green grapes.
    For a split second I flashback
    to when I was four years old,
    watching Mom peel grapes
    one by one
    so I won’t choke on the skin.
    Mom laughs as they slip through her fingers
    and says she doesn’t know why she’s
    still peeling them. I’m not a baby anymore.
    But she keeps doing it anyway,
    grape after grape,
    because that’s the way I like them.
    Then for the first time in forever,
    I get that cookie-dough feeling.
    The warm, out-of-the-oven emotion
    that a little girl can only feel for her mother.
    And I wonder what snuffed that feeling out.
    If it was Avery with her
    I’m-the-favorite-daughter routine.
    Or if it was Rennie with her relentless
    mother bashing—like:
    Don’t-expect-a-thank-you-just-
    for-pushing-me-out-of-your-vagina.
    Or if maybe
               somehow
                     it was me.
    Because I believed them both.

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As If Things Weren’t Bad Enough
    The Pomeranian shows up with her clipboard.
    I don’t know if I have the strength
    to fake my way through her questions today.
    Plus, I’d really rather see why there’s such
    a commotion in the lobby behind her,
    but I can’t make it out because she’s filling
    the whole doorframe with her polyester suit.
    While I’m craning my neck, she reads
    from the same stupid script as yesterday:
    1. Do you know why you’re here?
             Apparently, so Rennie can dump me for the Two Face.
    2. Do you think you need