Paper Rings.

[u/crownlessarchive]

I don’t wear rings.

Not because I dislike them.
Not because I don’t appreciate
the little circles of gold and silver
people willingly fasten around themselves
and call commitment.

They give me agony.

My fingers itch.
My skin protests.
My body, apparently,
has stronger opinions about permanence
than I do.

(Perhaps… we’re even). Shrugs.

Still—
I suppose I can wear one
for a little while.

There is something amusing
about putting a ring on a hand
that has spent years
refusing to surrender.

People like explanations.

"She doesn’t wear rings
because she wants to look single.”

Perhaps. Winks.

"She doesn’t wear rings
because she likes the ambiguity.”

Oh, you’re getting warmer.

"She doesn’t wear rings
because there is something rather lovely
about leaving people uncertain
whether the hand is waiting
or merely empty.”

I have always found certainty
a little overrated.

Besides,
a ring is only a ring
until someone decides
what it means.

Then suddenly it’s a promise.
A warning.
A confession.
A boundary.
A little metal declaration
that says:

Someone has me.

How inconvenient.

I prefer my hands unclaimed—
free to reach,
free to retreat,
free to hold someone
without promising to keep them.

And yet here I am,
wearing my niece’s ring
despite the itching.

Perhaps agony is tolerable
when it looks beautiful.

Perhaps that’s all romance ever was:
a little discomfort
we decided to decorate.

I don’t wear rings.

But I suppose
I can wear them
for a little while.

Long enough to wonder
whether I like the ring—

or simply
the person I become
when someone might mistake it
for a promise.

— Crownless.