Pinky Promise.

Sprawled like turtles unable to move,
we lay on the floor, thinking, waiting.
The smoke swirls just above our bodies,
not quite touching us, but taunting
with the threat to kill.

"Please, don't ever cut again," you say.
Your tone is serious, the smoke grows nearer.
I promise I won't, shying away from you.
"Pinky promise," you say, as our fingers intertwine,
a ritual long since practiced by me.

But you didn't know that my promise,
one woven together by a kid's game,
is my freshest wound.

Don't.

Blank pages. Empty words.
Meaningless sentences.
Nothing to say; nothing to mean.

How could I stand here and lie
right to your face? Spill emotions
that don't exist onto a canvas
all too passive to handle this.

Listen closely, for I won't repeat--
I can't cope with all that you want
me to. I can't divulge the secrets
of years ago because it's a game for you.

Don't expect too much from me.
My lips will remain sealed, my eyes
fastened tight for I will not trust myself
even if you say you do.

I'm not the friend you need or want.
Just a stand-in, a decoy til you find
what you really need. So don't expect
too much. Don't wait for me.