Maria's poem is only four short lines, but the last one changes how we read everything before it. The first three, set in italics, sound like the words of someone offering support: "Hold on," "We will make it," "I got you." On their own, they feel warm and protective, the kind of thing you'd say to someone in a frightening moment.
Then the final line reveals what they really were: "The lies of a boy who stole my heart." The reassurance wasn't true. The speaker is now looking back at those promises with hurt and disappointment, and the word "stole" suggests she feels robbed, not simply let down.
The italics make the phrases read like remembered speech, replaying in her head. The mood is quiet, bitter, and sad. The poem's power comes from contrast: tender words first, then the sting of realizing they meant nothing.