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 ...
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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