broken

	Once I had jokingly said it was beautiful.  
My friends certainly thought it was, and so, I 
had bought careless.  It now sits on my shelf, a 
guilty reminder.  I had thrown it down once, in 
a fit of rage.  I could no longer stand it there on 
my shelf.  In the end I had swept it up and 
glued it back together.  That had happened 
long ago, the glue had turned yellow and 
brittle since. But it sits there trusting, no longer 
beautiful--no one could claim that now--
evoking pity in the eyes that glance its way.  
There is nothing I could do for it really.  Money 
could not make it right.  Love can only pull me 
down to its level.  So I cast my eyes aside as I 
pass.  But it is there, waiting.  I began to resent 
it sitting there marring my otherwise happy 
space.  I could not bring myself to remove it or 
even to have it removed.  Even if  it was gone I 
would still avert my eyes when I passed the 
spot.  I would try to forget it had been my fault,  
its last bit of pride--a spot  I would not use 
anyway--had been taken from it.  I would be 
left to wonder where it lay now.  If it had been 
crushed into a thousand pieces because I had 
forced it away.
	And so it sat there still, day after day, 
waiting.  I could never love it. And love  is the 
only thing that could make it right.