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...
Forgiveness won’t come easily
no,
It may never come at all.
I lived a life ruled by hardships
written in his handwriting,
laws designed for his comfort,
his benefit,
His escape.
I survived inside rules
that never protected me.
These scars were not accidents.
They were carved
by a careless heart,
by disrespect dressed as love,
by dishonesty that learned my face
and lied to it daily.
He fed me false truths
over and over,
as if my mind was empty,
as if I could not feel the weight
of being fooled, as if I was a child.
I was expected to forget.
To absolve.
To soften the damage
so he could sleep at night.
But forgiveness lives far from my heart
So far, it cannot hear my name.
It will not walk toward me,
not now,
not with time,
not with death.
Even my grave will not open for it.
This is not bitterness
This is memory standing its ground.
Forgiveness will not resurface.
Some wounds do not ask to be healed.
They ask to be remembered
So the truth is never rewritten.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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