I have no more space left in my head for those kinds of promises.

I heard them too many times. So many that by now I know their sound before they are even spoken. I know the voice of postponement when it dresses itself as responsibility. I know the smell of cowardice when it presents itself as institutional seriousness. I know the look in the eyes of the person who says “it takes time” while in reality meaning “it takes the tension passing so that I do not have to change anything.” Your promises have a real name. Delay. They are the diplomats of avoidance. The wrapping paper around the will not to collide with whatever produces the crime.