A wise man once said that you cant break something that is already broken. This is a lie. I am the most broken of all, a puppet whose strings have been snipped by your expert hand. I stumble around, trundle through life, breaking more with every step that I allow myself to take. I am broken (I have been for many years): everything was fine, I lived my fractured existence and then you lied. You said you’d fix me, pick up all my pieces and glue them back together, maybe not to the same quality as before, but you promised to use your glue, stitch my seams and turn me into a whole piece. You lied. You picked at my broken seams until I fully unravelled, you crunched the tiny fragments of me under your heavy feet, splintering my being into a million little pieces. You broke me more than anyone else ever managed to. You have created more work for the next man who comes along and tries to fix me. Poor broken girl, what did you expect? I pity the fool who thinks that they can make me brand new again. Some things just arent worth the time, effort or energy. I am one of these things. Poor broken girl, shattered on the floor. What are you going to do?