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...
What a cruel truth
this world keeps hidden.
They do not apologize
When they wrong you.
Instead,
They rewrite the story
and place you on trial.
They bruise you.
Then paint the wounds
as proof of your weakness.
They dress their actions
to suit your image,
So the world may turn against you
while they stand untouched.
What a hard world this is
where silence is mistaken for guilt,
and pain is used as evidence
against the one who endured it.
Do not let them shame you into quiet.
Do not let their comfort
be bought with your suffering.
Refuse the lie
that their cruelty defines your worth.
You are not guilty
for being hurt.
You are not less
for surviving.
And you do not owe anyone
your silence.
Stand firm.
Truth does not need permission
to exist.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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