I was promised:

a mother.

a father.

a house with four walls

and a bed that knew my name.

ice cream on Sundays

after church.

God,

in the shape of light

through cloudy glass.

a good movie,

a better kiss goodnight.

a door that opens

both ways.

I wasn’t promised,

but nearly had:

a stray cat,

half-shadow climbing a tree.

a boy on the slide

who called me toothless.

a father who stayed.

a mother who looked at me

like I was hers.

God.

a summer

that didn’t end too early.

I have promised:

to do better.

to try.

to write my name in

letters that last.

to know who I am

by eighteen.

to never love a boy

(not like that.)

to be kind,

and cruel,

and still somehow holy.

to believe.

to never die.

to be more

than a mouth

full of teeth—

to be more.