Pinky Promise

The first time we broke

I explained him like a David Fincher movie —

more reveals come with a second viewing.

Told my friends

he was kind,

reserved,

he just needed time.

I said we were good together.

I said our story hadn’t ended —

still developing.

When we came back into frame

I thought this was the start of a franchise —

not a low-grossing sequel.

Months later

I learned he’d shared

a private piece of me

for his friends to laugh.

His apology was cellophane —

thin, transparent, crinkling.

We tried to keep going,

but something had shattered

and it wouldn’t stop rattling between us.

The second time we broke

we hooked our pinkies

like children

and promised:

No tearing each other down.

No turning each other

into entertainment.

Only kindness.

We said we were friends.

Later I learned —

one of us was lying.

My name was a punchline again

for a woman who “meant nothing.”

Something in me snapped.

He went low.

I dug a fucking crater.

I told truths with pointed teeth.

I shared the texts

where he mocked

the very friends

who laughed at me beside him.

I am done

protecting someone

who never protected me.

Pinky promise!