I thought I’d put the glass that was my life back together. I’d painstaking glued each sharp-edged piece and cut my fingers to ribbons doing it.
In scarred hands, I hold the glass that is my life. It’s no longer as good as before, but at least it holds some water. It can be a glass half-empty at least.
But if I drop it again, it’ll smashed into even smaller pieces and I’m too tired to even try to put them back together, my fingers are too sore and next time there’s no chance the glass will hold any water.