At The Round Table:

She’s not sure she thinks of herself as attractive anymore: The daily battles had whittled her down so that there was nothing left, Just a soul-less sack of saggy flesh and brittle bones that would make good compost, Besides, the only thing she knew for sure about love was that it was transient, And yet more

Fling me please:

Tiny morsels of hope spreading, Through her entire being, And Psychics weren’t wrong, Were they? Two more weeks, Only two more weeks of this misery! And then she would meet him, The man of her dreams, And, oh, if only, She had a dollar for, Every time she’d believed them! Where else was hope to more