Cracked and Bonded

You are broken. You are my favorite broken dish that I sweep up every morning after someone smashed you last night. I have a pretty pink dust pan and soft bristle broom. With angst-y hands I glue you together with crazy glue, very tightly bonded my fingers are stuck to your dish. I can not remove my finger prints off of you without ripping my own flesh and you can never drop to the floor again in this way. It is chemistry at its finest and you feel good all cracked and bonded in my hands. I try and shake you off a few times but it does not work, I am just a girl walking the streets attached to this dish by my stuck fingers on you. I go to a surgeon and beg for a prescription to release my digits from you and get acetone and it works. I soak you down with paint thinner, give you a bath with soap and then lay you down in the center of my bed, or in the middle of an empty field. I kiss the center of your plate with my lips, and find you are a man. A broken man all cracked and bonded.