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.