Love was never a heartbeat. It was the echo left behind after the heart forgot why it was still beating. It arrived wearing another person's face, its hands stitched together from promises that had already begun to rot. I welcomed it. Not because it was kind, but because loneliness knows how to mistake a wolf for warmth. Every smile it offered cast a longer shadow. Every whispered "forever" fed another ghost sleeping beneath my ribs. The thought of love is a clever liar. It builds cathedrals from broken mirrors, then asks us to kneel before our own reflections, calling the illusion destiny. How eagerly we obey. We water flowers that grow from graves, write poems to people who never truly existed, and embrace memories still unborn. Love watches. Silent. Patient. Like a spider waiting in the center of a web woven from hope. It never forces us inside. It simply lets us believe the silver threads are rays of morning light. By the time we understand, the sky has forgotten our ...
A whispering voice keeps talking in the ears,
Soft as breath, yet sharp as fear,
No face, no shadow, nowhere near
Still, every word is crystal clear.
What a frightening world we tread,
Where silence screams inside someone's head,
Where unseen truths refuse to be buried
And guilt becomes an uninvited guest.
What did you do? The whisper asks,
Behind closed doors, behind your mask.
You wronged a soul both pure and kind,
Left no mercy, left no sign.
An innocent heart bore your deceit,
Fell beneath your careful lies,
You traded truth for quick defeat
And called a betrayal “being wise.”
You spoke their name with poison breath,
Bent the story, broke their flame,
But lies have weight, and time has depth,
And justice never forgets a name.
The price must be paid—so says the air,
Not with noise, but slow and deep,
For unseen voices always swear
What’s sown in darkness, we must reap.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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