On days like this when I have nothing left to give, I find myself digging through the dirt to find a speck of gold dust to offer up, to offer out, to offer inwards.
Because if I do not have anything left then it’s on days like this I believe I am not worth saving at all.
And this is all I ask, to be saved, to be saved so completely that I am no longer worthless.
Worth less than all of the pain and all of the suffering I have seen and worn like a cloak of armour shielding me from this feeling of worthlessness.
If I dig, if I dig for long enough, if I dig deep enough, surely I will find a splinter of truth worthy of the life less lived, the life I’ve craved for more than an eternity of worthless existence.
I hear them telling me to save myself, to find the light, to find a flash of hope to highlight my darkness in a way more palatable to their delicate stomachs.
I hear them telling me to be grateful enough to be allowed to show anything I resent,
To show enough mercy to be allowed to reveal what I cannot forgive,
To give an understanding big enough to be allowed to express how misunderstood I feel,
And, when I cannot find enough within me to highlight my gratefulness, my mercifulness, my understanding, I hear the lesson that has lived with me since birth:
That nothing I hold within is worth my expression, that I am not worth saving by anyone but myself.
So I dig, I dig a little deeper and a little harder, picking the scabs off the scars that were only placed there to hide my pain in the first place.
Because surely, surely, if there’s nothing on the surface worth saving then there must be something within this dark pool of an existence that will prove my worth.
And while I bleed, while I gather my pools of death to find a lonely whimper of life, I watch them walk further and further away, removing my life-rafts, telling me I must hold myself up before I am worth being held by another,
That I must save myself before I am worth saving by them.
Them, who know I turned inwards because they told me it was the only way to be saved,
Who then duck for cover when they do not like what I find.
And me, spinning in their whirlpools of shame that weep through my pours just to give them two syllables of a platitude that sound anything close to ‘thank you’.
Me, drowning in a ocean of worthlessness, just to throw out a grain of sand to feed their worthiness, and to become worth saving.
It’s on days like this, then, when I realise maybe I don’t want to be saved by them after all.
Maybe I don’t want to be worthy enough fit their definition of worth.
Maybe I don’t want the save that comes with the message that the dark details of my story are only worth telling through a veil of light, that the minor chords must be sung in a song that makes them sound major.
Maybe I don’t want to break myself into a million pieces of dirt to find that one shard of gold dust that tells them I am worthy of the help it would take to be put back together.
It’s on days like this when I find the only people I want to let into my brokenness are the ones who saw me as whole all along,
The only ones I want to be worthy of are the ones who do not need me to prove my worth first,
The only ones who I can allow to walk in my shadows are the ones who do not demand I am healed before they step foot onto my broken path.
It’s on days like this when I find I can either kill myself to prove I am worthy of the save,
Or I can declare myself worth saving, despite how dark I sound and despite the noises that scream at me to hide it all away in light,
And declare that I need help and I am worth being helped, but only by those who can see my worth before they review my dirt or my gold dust.
Because on days like this, when I feel like I need saving,
When I feel I have no worth left to prove, no matter how deeply I dig,
When I need more than I can hold on my own to save me,
I can neither listen to the voices that tell I must do it alone,
Nor can I soothe my cries just to sound worthy of the noise they make,