Fine Bone

I am but a broken piece of China.
A chipped teacup, an imperfect saucer.
Fractured bone exposed too young too deep to save.
Then, at once, you lift me to your lips and I again have purpose.
Roses bloom and blush on the veined porcelain of my flesh, the flawed surface made new by my lovers steadfast grasp.
I am but a piece of China.
A chipped heart, an imperfect soul.