A Poem to No

Please, oh please, don't do it. If you want us to be friends, you're going to have to restrain yourself. If you like, I can explain, so you'll see how easy it is. At the same time, I'm all right with not being friends. Six one way, half a dozen the other. 

Don't send me yellow roses, which are my favorite flower, most of the time. Other times I like Rudbeckias, lilacs, or lavender. Oh, please don't send me lavender. It won't survive in my garden becauuse I won't water it on purpose. Not the Munstead variety, not the Spanish kind. No kind at all. Just don't send it. 

Forget I mentioned the Rudbeckias and lilacs, too. I've got enough to deal with finding a place to compost all the yellow roses that I'm starting to hate. That's your fault. I never should have told you, though, so part of the blame is mine.

Least of all, don't send me flowers on the third of every month because you want to celebrate the day we met. I don't want to celebrate that. In fact, I rue the day we did, pun perhaps intended. Although the plant has some beneficial characteristics, it can also have some pretty toxic ones and some people get terrible dermatitis. I have very sensitive skin and you irritate me, so you get the reference, I'm sure. 

Three used to be my favvorite number, but I've had to give that up and pick a new favorite. I will keep it to myself. Or maybe I can tell you it's fifty-two, so you're left without a date to send anything.

Don't call me every Wednesday just to tell me you miss me. In fact, just don't call me at all and we can call it even, how's that? I've never liked talking on the phone with anybody, not since I was fifteen. Okay?

By the way, I never call you because I never miss you. We already see each other too often.

Don't make me any more of that quince jam from flowers I once loved like a hummingbird. I have enough quince trees in my yard to make my own and my recipe is probably better. I might put walnuts or cashews in it the next time I make a batch. Some nutmeg, too. But not for you. You can make your own. For you, not me. 

While we're at it, I need to remind you: don't leave cheap chocolates on my porch, especially in the sun. I never like chocolates, they make my teeth and my heart ache. Plus, I'm afraid my dog might eat them, and you know that would be a very bad thing. Onions, garlic, chocolate, macadamia nuts, corn on the cob, avocado, xylitol - yes, that too -, alcohol, grapes and raisins are extremely toxic to canines. So back off with those chocolates. I think I'm allergic to chocolate, anyway.

Don't come during the night to pick dandelions (or even chickweed) from my yard. The yellow makes me happy; they're like little suns, as children say. You probably don't agree with that, because I've seen you sneak onto my lawn to snip a few blossoms and tear up some roots. How could you? I love them and I use them to make a citrine salve, one that is good for skin irritations. (You should know about irritations, but maybe you don't.) There are also lemony cookies and wine that use dandelions. They are my secret recipes. I repeat: secret. 

By the way: I drink alone. Nobody is invited.

I almost forgot the chickweed. Although I no longer have a parakeet to feed it to (learned that from my grandmother, who had a blue one), it's quite good in salads humans eat and may have some medicinal uses worth exploring. While I don't suffer from asthma nor do I have scurvy, it still might come in handy, so please don't touch mine. Ever. Poor little flowers. Poor me. Poor you if you don't listen.

Please don't bring your super silent machine to mow my lawn any more. I heard it the other evening, although you might not be aware I did. It's not all that silent after all. Anything louder than the purr of a cat wakes me up, since I'm a very light sleeper. Plus, I know you thought I'd think you were trying to do something nice for me. I saw through that right away, of course. My grass that did not need mowing was merely an excuse to look in my bedroom window.

Perhaps you would like to know that there are foxes in the neighborhood and occasionally one comes to sit beneath my window, near the corner of the house. I hear it a lot, calling to its kits. Foxes are lovely animals and I've read they have four types of calls, but some can be dangerous and you might want to be aware that I have them and will do anything to keep them safe. 

Don't look at me with your green eyes because you're trying to look like a feline. Yes, I love cats, love them very much. I love them in various forms: lynx, jaguar, panther, ocelot. Love them almost as much as I do dogs, squirrels, chipmunks, foxes, and opossums. Skunks, too. We have all of these around the house. I might recruit a skunk for something, with its skills and glossy fur.

But not you, oh not you, I don't love you. Never going to happen.

Don't write me rhyme-y poems. You know what else sounds like that word and I made it up just for you, but don't feel flattered. In other words, keep your lust to yourself, because yes, despite the repetition, it's disgusting. I feel like going right now and taking a shower, in fact. Or running outside in this pouring rain to wash the sound away. That might help a little bit.

Keep your head on your shoulders. Pay attention, please. Also, keep your heart in your chest and your hands on the wheel. I want none of you anywhere near me. See previous paragraph for clarification, if need be. I get an upset stomach very easily.

When I travel, don't map my route with your stealthy GPS. (Of course you have one; everybody does. Plus, I've noticed from your messages that you've used it on me to see where I'm going if I let it slip that I'm going out of town. I could track you, too, but don't count on it.) Why do you do it? 

Look up the word creepy in the dictionary. It comes from creep and some synonyms are: terrifying, spine-chilling, blood-curdling, horrific, and harrowing. (The last word is quite nice, maybe my favorite.) There are others, more along the lines I'm thinking when thinking of you: disturbing, disgusting, awful, ghoulish, menacing. You get the idea, I think, although if you did, things would be different between us because us would not exist, not even in your mind.

Creepy comes from Old English and means to creep or crawl. There are lots of things that do that, and most are unpleasant. You (should) get the gist.

I won't be there if you track me down, however you try to do it. There is a famous song by a very young Michael Jackson that sounds similar, but it wasn't intended for us. You don't need to listen to it. You might get ideas and you already have too many. So do I.

Please don't do it, don't follow me any more or

I will 

[have to

[shoot you