Damaged Goods

I feel almost like I’m

Damaged goods.

Like the snow globe shaken by a kid that

Wasn’t holding it tight enough–

I fell to the ground and cracked

And the glitter and liquid seeped out.

I feel sort of like I’m

Damaged goods.

Like the shirt that sits on

The clearance rack

In some cheap department store

With a few loose threads here

And there, and a little stretched out

From being taken on and off

Of stranger, after stranger.

I’m a lot like

Damaged goods.

Like that toy from the dollar store

That you bought your kid

Just the other day;

I’m cheap like that– I break easily.

I’ve accepted that I am

Damaged goods.

I break things off like that to protect myself.

I stretch myself trying to keep something

Anything alive for once in my life,

But I’m only let down again.

Then there are holes in my heart and my mind

That seemingly nothing can fix, and I

Push people away for fear they’ll cut their fingers

On the cracks in my snow globe.

I am

Damaged goods

And yet, I’m less afraid of shattering myself than I am

Of people stepping bare-footed on these shards.

And I am the

Damaged goods,

But I'll be sure I'm not damaged

In vain.