The handwriting is mine dated January 1st

The handwriting is mine, dated January 1st:

I will not.

Three words. A promise. Now I've burst

that promise without even watching it break.

February 14th and I find the note

I wrote to myself, my own handwriting

like evidence, like a vote

I cast against myself and now I'm hiding

from the thing I swore I wouldn't do,

and I already did it weeks ago.

I don't even know when.

That's the thing that kills me—

not that I broke it,

but that I broke it

and didn't watch myself break it,

didn't even notice

when the line got crossed,

when the thing I promised became

the thing I'd already done.

So I fold the note back up.

I put it away.

I don't read what came after I will not.

I already know

the answer.