“Damaged goods” It swirls round and round in my head. A reverberating echo through all of me. From mind, to heart, to soul. Slicing me to shreds, like a stiletto in an alley fight.
Damaged goods. That’s what I am. It’s what I’ve become. I see it on the faces of others when they look at me.
I’m no longer good. Not top shelf material. I am the pushed off dented can at the supermarket. Second rate, if that.
Damaged goods I can’t even bring myself to look up at the world like a human being anymore. When I see that look of disdain flash across your face. “I’m not good enough” is what your eyes scream out as you glare at me.
It doesn’t matter that everyone has a past. It doesn’t matter that everyone makes mistakes. It doesn’t matter that I’m not the only one like this. All that seems to matter is that I don’t meet your approval. Therefore I have lost my value to you.
Damaged goods. Why won’t you love me?