A Confession

(what I want to tell my friends when they ask me why I don’t want to be involved with him romantically)

by Myrtle Yvonne

Spare me the romantic gestures, spare me the cliché love note on a tissue paper, the lame confession on the bathroom wall, the tree trunk with our flamboyant initials carved on it. I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to be involved with him romantically. All I want is our constant enthusiastic exchange of stories—both of his hands holding my right hand in the back of the car under the soft night colors, his awkward hugs that keep my monsters at bay and his tiring arguments. I do not need someone to test love with—with our eyes blind-folded, mouth gagged, to test humanity’s endurance by getting in a tub and having the other pour the shower right in my face and call it sacrifice. I don’t want to test love anymore for love is always acquainted with sadness and fear.

I just need someone whom I can hold hands with, someone whom I can find and appreciate the grace in every flaw and dark corner of humanity with and still, despite of it all, respect the blood and salute the devils that are my past selves for being brave.

Myrtle Yvonne is a pre-med student who writes in her spare time. She believes that The Turkey Farm can’t accommodate us all. Her blog is at: theegreywolf.tumblr.com