Keeping My Promise
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I could tell my mom was looking dead at the scars on my wrist.
"Sweetheart, promise me you will never do that again."
"I love you mom."
"I love you too, sweetheart. Now promise me you won't do it again."
"Okay mom, I promise."
"Hopefully you can keep that promise."
"Trust me, I'll keep it with my life."
Now that my mom is gone, it's getting harder and harder to keep my promises.
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Irrevocably (COMPLETED)
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I made a promise, a commitment, a vow, and an oath that I'd never fall into the brutality they call love ever again, as it is something not to be toyed with. Think of it this way: Love is like a scented candle. The candle stick and the waxed aroma make the candle itself. Then it's ignited by a great inferno, and together, they make a beautiful thing. It burns for a long time, but then it loses that flame, that spark that ignited the creature. I guess the two most important ingredients gave up on each other. "Love" can be a metaphor, a simile, but most of all, a promise. A promise that can't be kept, something that waits until infinity to be broken. At least that's what I, Roseabella Swayed, once believed.
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