Once upon a time, I was new. I was appreciated by my first and destined owner. We lived happily, but not ever after…not after he broke me and disposed of me. And I can’t quite identify my tragedy as an accident or intentional malice, but the important thing was that I was broken, and that I was no longer useful to him.
But one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and now I’m back on the market…as a used good. I’ve been used eight times since him. Purchased, borrowed, shared. Used. And disposed again. But never had I been broken a second time.
However, this is not the result of kindness. This is the result of their apathy to finding my weak spot. I would hardly call it mercy. It’s more like unwillingness to push one’s luck with a fragile object.
I know what I am, and I am a used good. I could be used eight times more, eight hundred times more, or never used again and I will still remain what I am. I am fragile. I am dispensable. I am broken. I am used.
Sometimes, I wish he kept me, even if only as a token of happy, forgotten days. I would give so much to be in his possession again. I would go so far as to give a lifetime of usefulness just to be reduced to a keepsake, provided that I am a keepsake of his.
But no longer do I deserve such a sweet and loving world. I am a used good. I will never be anything more… and always seen as something less.