Damaged Goods

The damage struggle. The unwanted, unneeded, always left and abandoned—struggle.             

We struggle to adapt to this life, stepping on carcasses as they rot from beneath, solidifying their death, knowing life is filled with pain and bile, turmoil and debris. We struggle to find our worth, if we are enough for one, for us, never wanting to depend on another, or so we have learned. We struggle to live, a life deserved, trapped in a prison burning down motivation, lacking inspiration, branding our skulls with failure, pity, screaming nightmares into existence. And we struggle to love, prevent the pain felt, witnessing patterns that could hurt souls and scar hearts, now frozen, pitch black.             

And the others, the epitomes we desire, flourish, grow, smile—laugh away life as if perfection is their mantra, their sacred little name.             

But for us, for the damaged ones, the low lives, their happiness diminishes our needs, causes Pain to constrict lungs and destroy the stitches and bandages patched by Time, ripping out flesh until our blood drains, as if we deserved it.             

We are left in the dust, always overlooked by others, always picking up irrelevant pieces, always enjoying the smallest moments of the present while, most of the time, reminiscing the past and worrying about the future.             

And she, well, she was always hurting…all the time.             

She felt seen once, felt as if there was someone who could save her from the bottomless black pit she built herself, as if there was someone who saw what others couldn’t, who noticed her from the shadows they threw her in. But when Betrayal became their identity, she quickly disappeared into the abyss, letting that pain consume everything inside of her…until nothing was left. She cursed at herself, weeping in the middle of July with no one to hold her, touch her, comfort her, with no one to see her. And she doesn’t want to be seen this way; weak, frail, ill, dying in her skin, her very soul. She doesn’t want to be seen when she struggles to breathe…or her bones tremble, unable to gather Earth in her hands, disconnected, isolated, and detested by everyone she’s ever loved. And because most don’t want to see her battles, she hides them, tries to, masking the war she fights, knowing if she doesn’t, she’ll die. And even if she fails, they’ll leave, like they always did, no one coming to seek her presence…ever again.             

You see, she’s been assaulted, abused, tortured, bounded by bars, murdered by facades, chained by killers, ripped apart for spiders to poison, to feed on her blood. Her mind never stops spewing, becoming paranoid of being damaged again by delicate hands and curious fingertips, develops an anxiety that drowns her body and stills her lungs, lying awake at night with aching bones, a puddle of tears, suffocating her voice, her silent plea. And she apologizes like the air we breathe, having no desire to intentionally hurt the innocent…or become the cruel.             

She’s like us, attempting to find her way into this world, craving happiness and serenity, digging through her skin to rid the hurt and fear instilled in her flesh, thirsting for love, aching to be saved.             

Just like us.             

But the Dead never listens, the Angels never fly or sing. We’re burdens, a bother, too self-involved, entranced, in need…emotional, sensitive, complicated—too much for anyone to see.             

So she’s dying.             

We’re dying.             

And no one is coming to-

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