. hot zone

[nahla rivera]

AND SHE SPOKE TOO SOON AGAIN
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rejection has a certain taste. bitter, of course, though when delivered right it's as smooth as honey as it filters into your skin, grabbing hold of you and coating your stomach without you realizing what has happened. it's a weird concept for a seven year old. it's a weird concept for a twenty one year old, even. the first time it had leeched into my skin i hadn't quite understood it, it was simply a nagging feeling in my gut, it made my teeth numb and it hurt in a way i didn't understand. i had basic concepts of pain - i got a spanking, that hurt. mason stole my doll, that hurt. i couldn't have another cookie, that hurt. base emotion.

"she's not even our kid."

that was new. the way it prickled my skin and twisted my stomach, that was new. i didn't know why i had felt that way until years later but i'm pretty sure i'd never come above that statement. never done anything to erase it.

it's more then not feeling like you're good enough, like you don't fit in. it's the sinking creeping feeling that you just don't belong, that no matter what you do, you will never belong. it's learning another language, being proficient but people can always taste, hear, see the difference. they will always know you don't quite belong. in a way that's different then being a ginger among brunettes, the lone hazel eyes in a crowd of crystal clear blue eyes. it cuts deeper then that. you can make up for those, contacts, hair dye. you can't change who you are, who you're from, who you're not really apart of.

chicory. it's like chicory. everything about you says one thing but their are the subtleties that prove you are entirely something different. they weed into your mind and everything is then, irrationally, related to the almost imperceptible differences. when you forgot my favourite colour was green, when i was the only one awful in math, when i was the only one crying as everyone was enveloped in stony silence, when you thought cinderella was my favourite princess, when i'm the only one who can find any passion in anything.

"that's just how she is."

i'm not mad at them. they did the good thing. i'm not mad at her for being unable to look after herself, to love me enough to try, to think about what she was doing, forgetting that she was no longer a single entity. i'm mad she could forget so quickly about the her swollen belly, the "miracle" it had given her - as presumptuous as it sounds. i'm mad at him for not stepping up. for not wanting me. for rejecting me. one right after another. it's never singular. you never face one rejection in your life, they all stem from one. twisting through your presence and it pushes and pulls you into ways that just earn you more, growing and feeding until you just have to wonder, why haven't i given up already? accepted what happened. accepted your rejection and just moved the fuck on.

pity party over.

- n

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