By an Anonymous Contributor
No.
To the teacher who thought helping me in the highs and lows in the economy meant helping himself to feeling up past my knees.
No.
To the boy who reached for me like he would a glass of whiskey, as if inside, if he groped deep enough, he might find the answers to the questions his demons called after him at night.
No.
Sir, just because I taught your grandson how to hit tennis balls does not mean I want anything to do with yours. I don’t drink, anyways.
No.
To the one who always thought I owed him more. I’m sorry but my thoughts are worth much more than a pretty penny, so go ahead and pick that up, you still won’t get lucky. Not here.
No.
Look, boy, your height doesn’t make you a man. And proving you’re stronger than me does not make me want to stand my ground any less firmer. So loosen your grip and let me go.
No.
I don’t want a drink.
No.
To the stranger I almost fell for. There’s a reason I stopped dancing with you. You made me feel beautiful. But then the swaying got deeper, and your hands wouldn’t stop roaming. Your smile still plays in my head every time I hear that song, but it doesn’t make me feel beautiful anymore.
No.
To the one who made me feel like I had to apologize for just breathing, or for not wanting you to want me. I’m very much alive, despite your efforts to make me wish otherwise.
No.
I think I lost count of how many times you’ve asked if you can buy me a drink, dude. I won’t be sipping anything that makes me slur my words around you, so maybe I should spell this out for you,
N-O. No.
I know it takes two to tango, man. But I only two step, and you have two left feet anyways.
No.
I’ve had to learn over time that sitting on a couch and watching a movie is not an invitation to introduce your mouth to mine. Go lick stamps and Mail yourself a reminder that you are not entitled to peel back anything not addressed to you. Paper or clothing.
No.
Listen, I know you speak Spanish and that’s supposed to be romantic, I know you wanna talk about my dreams, but believe me when I say you’re not in them. I know my mother gave you my number, but I don’t want to be your secreta, señor.
No.
My eyes are up here.
No.
Just because I was your girlfriend does not mean all of me belonged to you, and saying that you love me while you try to remove my clothes doesn’t make me any more compliant or willing.
No.
To the one who hated my walls, did you ever think they were there for a reason? You said that if I didn’t bring them down you would stop fighting for me. That I was never going to be able to give you enough anyways. You’re right.
No.
I don’t want a drink.
No.
To the hipster. It was really easy to read your “Slave to Jesus Christ” wrist tattoo while you were pinning me down. I hope you like this poem. You inspired it, after all.
No.
To the teacher, it’s not mysterious to call your home a wolf’s den. It’s just creepy. I wonder how many innocent girls you have devoured there. I won’t be one of them.
No.
To the Coach who liked to park next to my car while I changed. You’re a pervert. I know why you really had to change schools.
No.
I don’t want a drink.
No.
To the ex, I found someone who finds something other to compliment than my ass. Or to embarrass me about other than my chest. Speaking of asses and embarrassments, you are one.
No.