I cried for you yesterday.
When the pipe hit. The point where my skull bends along the back, the ugliest part of my head but for my mouth. The place I take things I did not see coming, but for a change of angle of the steel end resting on the grass next to me. Let go, unattended and free to land on my relatively soft bone, pulled into it by gravity.
From the top of my lungs, even though it didn’t hurt all that much. Because the guy releasing the pipe didn’t look what he was doing. Because he is a bit slow. Because he is heavy, and I can’t stand imperfect people because they remind me of myself. I couldn’t stand him, even though he had done nothing wrong to me. Because I’m not worth living for to you. I wanted to go home, I was working hard and efficiently, despite my frustration. Because of that frustration, because I wanted to close my eyes to it, and that blow cracked my walls.
From the top of my lungs I screamed, because I was dirty with the sand on which Limburg was built, reminding me of my two months in Leopoldsburg. What a failure that turned out to be. What a failure I felt, seeing the filth craws up my arms and stain body parts only dirt can reach. I was doing so well shutting out the memories, when I was called back to an undeniable reality so abruptly.
From the top of my lungs I screamed.
A meaningless utterance of frustration, a prayer for strength, an attempt for an echo, through the squirming thoughts inside my bruised skull if nowhere else, to keep me company; a request for someone to roar with me. A try for intimidation of the goddamn idiot letting go of a 3 meter long scaff pipe for no apparent reason.
A statement, that the hastily uttered ‘Sorry!’ and suddenly frightful eyes were simply not enough. That I needed more, to be asked if I was alright, to be taken care of, cradled, guided to my knees, even though it didn’t hurt all that much. To be told over and over what I am, and what I have done until I can cry it out, finally purifying, cleansing myself of a chemical my body can’t rid itself of. Told that I am worth living for, that I can save a life by just being me. And above all, I needed a goddamn shower.
A question, why a scream is the best I could do. Why I couldn’t pick up the pipe and swing it back at him, curse, shout, kick or punch. Why I broke down that very instant, reduced to something that can do nothing about itself but cry about it. Why I can’t form a coherent sentence in an unknown crowd, and only second-hand lame one-liners in a known one. Why I can’t be both unique and valuable, why I can’t be addressed the way I address without anyone taking it personal.
Because it was all I could do. Because I knew nothing else than the sudden tension pouring out of my mouth like a soul coughed up and choked out, escaping its prison, luckily without breaking it.
Because it is a temporary solution, a gesture that keeps you sane. The time was right, the reason was there, and no one could blame me. No one but me.
Because to you.
Because to you.
I am just not worth living for.
This entry is mostly fictive, but for the actual event.