“Why did you stay?”
Well…
it’s more complicated
than answers dare to be.
When you love someone,
you don’t just see them—
you see the cracks
where the light leaks in,
the boy with scraped knees
behind the stormcloud eyes.
You cradle the ache in them
like it’s holy.
And you forget
the teeth.
You miss the way
the shadows shift—
how the wolf watches,
patient,
just beneath the warmth of his smile.
Predators know how to kiss
without biting.
They laugh with you at noon,
make eggs in the morning,
tuck hair behind your ear,
wipe crumbs from your lips—
and you think,
This is real.
This—
is the man.
But come nightfall,
the bottle breaks its seal
like a curse being spoken.
And Jekyll slips—
in slammed doors,
in shattered glasses,
in hands that almost miss your arm.
Still, I’d say to myself,
Just ride it out.
The sunrise always softens him.
The bottle’s grip
will loosen by dawn.
Hope…
hope is a lullaby sung
by a snake.
She speaks in sugar,
drips molasses down your throat,
wraps your ribs in silk—
until your bones forget
how to run.
You chant the same lines
every night like prayer,
until they echo in your marrow:
He’ll be better tomorrow.
He didn’t mean it.
He’s hurting.
I can help.
And one day,
those words stitch into your skin.
They become
your rhythm.
Your gospel.
Your cage.
Until you look down—
and see your hands trembling,
offering pieces of yourself
to the dark in the doorway.
And he—
he keeps coming back
for more.
J.N. Rose 