She’s damaged goods.

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She’s the ship wreck on the shore that everyone loved to look at, dwell in her confines, and listen to her stories even though she didn’t say a word. They all thought she made the shoreline ugly, rust, decayed wood and wails of the wind that bore her sorrows but no one dared remove her.

She was a reminder of how fortunate they were and also how boring they were. They couldn’t bear to be the spectacle of ogle like she could. She took it with a throw of her white sail, and a flicker of mascara, sly smiling bow but her plank was there, solid and anticipating her next traitor.

What presents itself as damaged goods is often the most passionate and generous. They may not offer material, but they can sail you on a sea of impossible storms, loves crashing waves, the oceans darkest bottoms and wash up after the storm, another piece wrecked off them, but still mesmerising.

The problem is with cowards who don’t want to salt their faces and tan their hearts.

-W.E.

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