A Monster Named Paranoia

I have never liked promises.
It's a funny little world. My mother promised she'd never leave me, but she did – or maybe I left her, when I released the roses from my previously tightly clasped hand and the tears from my eyes and my feet carried me away from her grave, my past. My father promised we'd always remember her, when he wore the fragile mask of an achieved man, at the funeral. Nowadays, I hum her favourite song and he clenches everything in his body but his hand, which he extends to meet my cheek with brute force, asking me for silence without even saying a word.
And then – then, there's you. There's you, the one who promised he would never leave, but promises are drops of hope in an ocean of deceit, made of paper, never penetrating my concrete heart. Every second spent in the endless sea of your eyes, I fear that you'll turn around, throw your crumpled up promise in my face, and walk away without looking back. Only this fear keeps me going. I want to see how far you'll outlast the others in this game of tears and heartbreak, how many little pieces of happiness you can shatter all at once. You've fed the monster inside me with promises, always reinforced by a never or an always, and I am sure you will break them. Don't deny it, love – the average human thrives on illusions and broken promises, and this is what the monster reminds me, when I am holding you and, for a blissful second, forgetting that you, too, are a promise; temporary, a sweet taste of hope that is doomed to disappear in the shadows.
They also promised me that there are a Hell and a Heaven, but I now know that they were wrong; there are two different Hells, one for the people who promised never, and the other for the ones who promised always. I know you'll go to both, after softly whispering in my ear what will become lies, so many times.
After all, it is only a matter of time before you go, and I am counting down in my head.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.