My No Is. (I Am Just Like Everyone Else)

My no is
both scythe and scalpel,
cutting away diseased and dead bits
to make room for healing and growth.

My no is a sign

showing where respect ends

and disrespect starts, saying, 

"Cross at your own risk."

My no is a test

designed to offend only those

who think anything less than 

my complete and uncomplaining compliance

challenges their self-worth.

My no is not the reason 

this bridge is burning.

You brought the matches and the gasoline

only after I said, "Stop."

Song Choice: Bad Blood by Taylor Swift

Liner Notes for This Groove: For my birthday, I decided to gift myself with setting a boundary that was long overdue. A friend had been taking advantage of my generosity for years, demanding I do a time intensive task for him regularly. Very recently he acted in a way that was highly disrespectful and minimizing of the work I did. I decided to tell him that I could no longer do it, and encouraged him to find someone with more patience time. 

I'd like to say I was surprised his response was to play the victim and end the friendship, but I long suspected I was only valued for what I could do. There is however a wonderful sense of relief I'm relishing. As I said, this happened on my birthday. And I was with family and friends who affirmed what good relationships look like (LOL, I owe a few of them a call back). 

As for the boundary breaker, I wish him well and hope he finds enough emotional maturity to honestly deal with why so many of his relationships go south. But he's not my problem anymore. Oh well, more cake for those I care about and those who care about me. 

 By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Dear Brett, Neil, Amy, Clarence, Samuel, and Mitch Too

I’m not interested in your brand
of freedom. A sick joke
you shove at others
that looks nothing like
true choice.

Even your so-called beliefs
are just spray paint and spangles
over elephant excrement 

cosplaying as patriotism. 

You don’t even bother

to pretend familiarity to those ideals
when they become an inconvenience.

But I will give you this much—
your repeated hypocrisies
are the best advertising
for the virtues of the other side.

You think being awake is an insult.
I call it the first step to breaking free.

Photo by Gayatri Malhotra on Unsplash

 

Song Choice: Vengo by Ana Tijoux

Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for Poets and Storytellers United's Friday Writings Post.

EDITED TO ADD: Forgive me dear Groovers, but I was distracted this week. It was only when I got back home that I realized I had rushed things and didn't give the title as much thought as I ought to have. 😰 I have changed it on 7/13/22 and will have more to say in the next post. Mea culpa. 

Smile

I should have smiled less

when the playground monitor pulled me

away. My grin should not have

grown as I was dragged through the halls,
ahead of that boy. That boy who assumed
I wouldn’t challenge him. Funny,

he seemed so sure

that I’d think his insult was flattery
or I’d that do any crying quietly
curled up in a stall.

Funny, his face

filled with more shock than pain
at the sight of my fists underlining my, “no”.
But he got the point. Eventually,

we were both sat down in front of the principal.
And when he asked who started it,
my smile was more damning
than his, “It's all her fault!”.

But I don’t regret an inch
of my smile, showing all my teeth
precisely where they should be.

And it doesn’t matter

how much my father might scold, 

how my mother will fret,

or if I have detention all year.

There’ll be no shame
in these black and blue eyes
next time I look in the mirror.

And my smile will be just as big too.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: One Girl Revolution by Superchick

Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings Prompt at Poets and Story Tellers United, Painted Tales. I chose "The Shiner" by Norman Rockwell.

I Pity the Poor Old Bird

I pity the poor old bird
who didn’t value the strength of the tree
that sheltered her from the storms,

and instead spent her nights
lamenting over another
tree that would not bend
to cherish her near so well.

I pity the poor old bird
who knows nothing
other than playing
at being a harpy,

befouling every space
unlucky enough to know her presence.

It is clear she envies
the kestrel and her mate,
lovingly paired and partnered,

with no wingbeat taken for granted—

the kestrel who knows the joy
of the welcoming blue sky,
the stars, and rising sun,

who has flown with true companions
that were only taken from her by death,
and not driven away by spite.

I pity the poor old bird,
who when she finally falls
stiff and cold from her perch,

will fall
unmissed,
unloved,
and unremembered,

save for the worms
that will find plenty of room to burrow
in the cavity of her empty chest.

Tasos Mansour on Unsplash

I hope those who hold you fondly in their mind have a true and clear image of you. 

I hope you are seen clearly for who you are.

May you never look into a mirror without seeing your true face.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: Mean by Taylor Swift and  I've No More F*cks To Give by Thomas Benjamin Esq. 

Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Bird is the Word.

A Serving of Nightshade

Well this looks like my lucky day, thought Adira as the room came into focus.

She was in the drawing room of her ex-fiancé’s townhome. Lord Bradley sat in his favorite chair, sipping a glass of wine, and watching her.

“I’m sorry, Adira,” he said. “But I thought this would be more comfortable for you than a cellar in Cheapside.”

“Very thoughtful,” she said, as she smoothed her hair back towards the untidy bun held by her favorite hair stick. “But it might have been nicer to have left me near the opera house.”

He made a tut-tut noise. “And left you at the mercy of Nightshade? That would have been rude.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Let me tell you a story,” he said, refilling his glass. “There was a naïve girl, whose romantic notions made her an easy mark for Nightshade, a notorious criminal who has become something of a hero to gullible young women and a nuisance to my guild’s interests. She unwisely agreed to be a lookout for one of his capers. Thankfully, a concerned friend was there to intercede before she had to face serious consequences.”

“Charming,” she said, stretching out her hands and fingers. “But what’s the price for his intercession?”

“Information. Everything you know about Nightshade’s organization, including the contact you were supposed to meet tonight.”

“And if I don’t?”

“It’s my duty to turn you in to the constables. Considering the trouble Nightshade has caused, that cellar is going to seem nice in comparison,” Bradley said.

“So you haven’t told the authorities yet?”

“Of course not. Adira, I can protect you. If you cooperate.”

Adira looked down at her lap. “I don’t want to go to jail. What if I told you I know who Nightshade is?”

He jumped out his chair. “Really? Who?”

“Me.” Adira pulled her hair stick free and threw it at his throat. It hit its mark. As he tried pulling it out, Adira picked up the bottle of wine and cracked it over his head.

“I have a story for you,” she said. “There once was an unscrupulous and overconfident man who wouldn’t shut up. So I fixed that. The end.”

Photo by Tyler Nix on Unsplash

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: Gives You Hell by All American Rejects

Liner Notes for This Groove: This bit of flash fiction was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United, Two Into One Shall Go. I went with embedded narrative. 

Keep Walking

How many steps does it take
to be truly away? How
are those steps measured?

Even if my feet weren't small

it is going to be a long walk for me.

You gave me a head start,
with your rightward shuffle
I was supposed to be
polite enough to ignore.

And though I've paused 

at this milestone moment,

I am too tired
not to keep walking

and wondering
how many steps
until I’m really away 

and no longer expecting 
to hear steps besides my own.

Photo by Adam Cao on Unsplash

Song Choice: Not Ready to Make Nice by The Chicks


This poem was created for Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings prompt. I went with Walking Away.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks