Into The Dark
It is a strange thing, love—
how the hand that warms can also wound,
how tenderness can taste of ruin,
and warning signs can flutter like wings.
I have seen the red flags glow like lanterns,
and still I called it heaven’s light.
You were every danger I could not name,
and I, the moth who found comfort in the flame.
They said I was lost,
but I called it loyalty.
They said you were breaking me,
but I called it staying.
I have followed your shadow
through rooms where reason dared not go,
through storms where mercy would not linger,
through nights that stripped me down to bone.
Even when you locked the door behind you,
even when your voice became a weapon,
I searched for softness in the shatter—
I swore I could love you back to calm.
But love,
real love,
is not a grave to be climbed into.
And I have learned too late
that devotion is not resurrection—
it is the slow surrender
of someone who wanted to save you
more than themselves.
