When I was nine, I promised myself
I would get rich from a card-making business.
I made three sets of cards,
then forgot about it.

When I was ten, I promised my camp friend
that I would write all the time.
I wrote her three letters,
but then one month I forgot to write a new one.
I never remembered.

When I was twelve, a girl from church
pulled up her shirt sleeves to show me where
she had drawn three red lines on her skin.
I promised her I wouldn't tell anyone,
then called her grandmother as soon as I got home.

When I was fourteen, I looked at myself in the mirror
and saw too much of everything.
I promised myself I would become skin and bone
and light as a feather.
I lost everything in three months, but even after that
I was never small enough to fly away.

When I was fifteen, I gave away my glass-box heart
to a boy who promised he'd stick around this time.
We went out three times, but now all I have left
are the smudges from his fingerprints.

Now I'm sixteen, and you're wading through the dustiest parts of me,
promising it'll be okay.

I wish I still believed in promises.