Damaged Goods
by Carol Wolrich
Email: carol.a.w@blueyonder.co.uk
What's this? It can't be.
I never fall. I never break.
I'm the flawless one. The
dealer said so; told them
when they came to admire me,
to offer to buy me. He outbid
them and kept me, pristine;
his precious glass figurine.
Always his, to have and to
hold; caged in a cabinet,
like a precious china doll.
He took me out and held me
up to the light; watched the
spectrum dance through my
unblemished soul; sighed with
pleasure at my purity, greedily.
Until his clumsy touch brushed
my side against the wall, and
cracked my outer shell. I thought
I was solid. Turns out I'm as
empty as a husk. And the dealer
is hollow too. What's this?
A drip of crimson. As if I've
caught a shaft of the spectrum.
But it's only a label, flowing
out my price in red ink - and
offers invited for damaged goods.
What's this? Tacky, red liquid,
trickling over my shattered skin.
The blood of the traitor. I've cut
him.