Fickle Finger of Fate

I was a fool, and did not realise that being a fool was a crime which merited such a harsh sentence.

Foolish I was, to tempt Fate; its fickle finger, which once betstowed blessings, has been all too quick to jab its pointed talon through the soft underbelly of my dragon's armour.

So quick I was to bemoan the lack of being able to boast about the brokeness of my heart that I did not realise said heart would soon be crushed and smashed.

I wanted all the romance and disaster of a broken heart simply so that I could have what others had and now I find myself with the shattered remnants of something that was once red and shining and vibrant and whole, the mutilated pieces of which are strewn across the tiles of my kitchen floor.

There are no sobs. There is no attempt to pick them up and make them whole; I know, at least, when a task is futile.

And I know too I was right - when something has been broken, there is no way to mend it.