Linoleum floors,
And water damaged ceilings.
Second hand clothes
Riddled with an array of allergies
To choose from.

When I was a young girl,
I was very firmly warned
That no good and godly man
Would want a woman
Who was
“Damaged goods.”

The isles of plates and cups
Look like a glass castle.
A shining fortress
Of colorful china
And distorted reflections.
Chipped,
And worn paint,
Or just out of style.

No one wants a woman
Who’s been used.
Your body is not your own,
It belongs to your future husband.
At least
That’s what they told me.

Leather jackets
That smell like cigarettes,
Boots with scuffs,
And faded curtains.
Always inspect CDs before you buy them.
An army of electronics
Lined against the wall.

Behave with a man
As if your future spouses
Were in the room with you.
Don’t touch each other too much,
It leads to
“Other things.”

Obsolete books
Colored on
And ripped.
A used book tells more than one story,
The one written out in ink,
And the history
Of the hands that have held it.

Hold a flower
In the palm of your hand,
Now crush it.
It will never be
The same again.
That’s how it is
With your virginity.

Dolls with faded faces,
Aged and off colored plastic.
Suspiciously sticky children’s toys
From the eighty’s.

I think I belong here,
I’m used.

First,
Second,
Third
Hand.

But I love thrift store finds.