She would rather be a Sunday love,
the one that makes you think of picnics
and church-bells,
and gives you hope
after Saturday's disastrous spell.
She imagines herself an entity of love,
in which she is
the dragonfly skirting the pond,
or a gentle, cooling breeze,
creating art upon your skin
to linger briefly in your mind.
Like her, I myself would much prefer
the subtle grace of Sunday;
but sadly, I am Saturday,

and I have a ways to go.

Sometimes I feel like that broken china doll
you found lying in a garage sale last summer.
Blackened eyes, busted lip,
and threatening to shatter at the slightest touch.
I oftentimes struggle to remind myself,
it's not my fault I ended up this way—
—for even the most avid of admirers
will occasionally drop their toys.