Oh, Romeo

Dear Romeo,

This is a bit awkward, but I’ve had misgivings ever since you asked me to call you “Butt Love.” I understand that boys like to experiment with their friends, but this is a balcony too far. After all, I am a Capulet. What’s in a name matters more when the name isn’t Montague.

Also, the sword fighting concerns me, leads me to believe you prefer swords to sheaths. It occurs to me that this posturing beneath my window is perhaps all for show, an illusion of romance.

Further, I’ve looked up other names for roses, and do not find Gulaab or Warda anywhere near as sweet. And the rumors of self-harm—daggers are not toys, and though Verona would scarce lament the loss of a Montague, I fear the same cannot be said of your mother.

Let’s make this easy for both of us and just let go before this relationship becomes toxic and poisons me against you.

Next time you pay me a moonlit call, simply turn around—Tybalt’s balcony is just across the courtyard, and he’s better at swordplay than I’ll ever be, might even show you how to handle that little dagger without hurting yourself. Rest assured, he won’t hesitate to call you Butt Love.

Good night sweet prince,

Juliet

P.S. Here’s a song to sing you to sleep

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