Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
They spoke my name
like it wasn’t mine.
Bent it.
Passed it around
in rooms I never entered,
in mouths that never asked me anything.
They said it loud,
confident,
Like lies get stronger
When you don’t hesitate.
And suddenly
I was guilty of stories
I never lived,
wearing accusations
like clothes someone else tailored for me.
Have you ever watched the truth
stand in the corner
While rumors get the microphone?
I have.
It hurts quieter than shouting
but deeper than fists.
I learned how silence feels
when it’s mistaken for weakness.
How dignity gets heavy
when you’re carrying it alone.
But hear me—
lies travel fast,
yeah,
but they don’t age well.
Truth limps,
but it arrives with receipts.
I’m still here.
Scarred, yes.
But not erased.
You can poison my name,
But you can’t live my life for me.
I walk forward
with my head high,
because one day
the same mouths that broke me
will choke on the truth.
And when that day comes,
I won’t scream.
I won’t explain.
My survival
will say everything.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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