Steam. Milk. Rat poison. Nux Vomica. Sounds like vomit. Probably makes you upchuck. Don’t ask why I was thinking about deadly poisons whilst making overpriced coffee. I blamed it on the book I’d read. A woman who murdered with natural remedies. A book that proved everything could be deadly in large quantities. Addiction is easy.
I am addicted to love. Touch. Sex. Affection. I don’t do much to get it. Hell no. It’s too scary to put myself out there. It’s too much to risk rejection. Rejection is fear. Fear is an addiction. I’m scared to sing online. Why? I’m afraid people won’t like my voice. I’m afraid of that one horrid comment in the sea of positivity. I’m afraid to love my mother. Why? She doesn’t love me. Not in my truest form. No. She looks at me like I’m cocaine. Mother isn’t addicted to much. Just shopping and beautification. That’s a good vice to have. At least you never leave empty handed.
“You’re shaking.” Dylan says.
I am. It’s fine.
“A little unsteady.” I say, grinning.
He nods. He doesn’t ask why I’m shaking. I wish someone would ask. I’m not bringing it up though. That would make space for rejection. I don’t want that. Can’t hack it. Can’t. I take a deep breath and pour the damn milk straight. Keep my hand steady. Make it look good. That’s all that matters in my family. Looks. Brown. Not black. The blacks are bad. The blacks are ghetto. I am the darkest of them. Midnight. Bruised. Obsidian. I love it. They think I’m too sensitive. I almost cried when they told me I couldn’t sit on the porch anymore because it was ghetto. I growled when they said our new neighbors didn’t deserve to be in their house. They needed to go back to where they came from. The blacks moved in. Sigh. Heavy. Ancestral. Sigh.
When work is done, I don’t go home. That’s the deal I made with myself. Now that there’s extra money I won’t go home. I’ll walk the mall like I’m doing laps. I’ll ride the bus until it stops running. Anything. Just don’t make me go home. I’m not running. No. I’m protecting. Guarding. There are things you can’t change. There are people and they are independent. I can’t make them see anything. Even if my lens is clear. Even if I think theirs is broken.
Perspectives are frustrating. A pretty girl tells me she’s not looking for anything. My brain says you’re ugly. My friend says, she’s not ready for anything. My brain hates rejection. I don’t know if she thinks I’m ugly. I won’t ask. That’s terrifying. Rejection. Perspective. She could be healing. I could be gross. I could just not be her type. Rejection. Perspective. Mortality is dumb.
Liking people is hard. Now I understand why people don’t do it. Now I understand why I was thinking about Nux Vomica. Addiction. Rejection. How many people died because of something they always did? A hobby. A routine. An addiction. How many people died because someone didn’t know how to take rejection? I’m not interested. I have a boyfriend. I’m healing right now. What’s the fun of living if everyone is yessing you to death? Where’s the growth?
I wonder what kind of person I’d be if I’d gotten everything I wanted. Probably a serial killer. A headline. Someone who jumped off a bridge because they got fired. Not that jumping off a bridge is selfish. Not wanting to deal with rejection might be. I’m not going to jump off a bridge though. I’ll just cry about it. Write a poem. A story. Smoke a joint. Go to bed.
I don’t think it’s personal, rejection. I think people don’t mean to reject you. I think people don’t think to ask a deeper question. I believe people are just too busy with their own lives. What would the world look like if we lifted our heads more? Smiled at a stranger. Asked why and wanted to know. What if we asked, how are you and didn’t cringe when the answer is candid? Our world likes platitudes.
On the bus, I dance. It’s packed. People can see me. I don’t care. This is therapy. Dancing on a crowded bus with strangers who could see me and be disgusted. Be enamored. Be perplexed. When the bus screeches to a halt at my stop, I sling my book bag over my shoulder. Walk out all cool like. Say, thank you and have a good one to the bus driver. I continue to dance. I catch a girl staring at me through the window. She’s dancing with me. She’s smiling. Perhaps rejection is worth it.
