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 ...
Lower your voice
We are not your mates.
This is not your house,
and your echo does not own the walls.
Your pride towers beyond measure,
standing where humility never learned to breathe.
You wear power like a weapon,
swinging it in every room you enter,
mistaking fear for respect.
Your pride is loud,
loud like violence
not always striking,
but always threatening.
It bruises the air,
forces silence to bow.
Power has fooled you,
convinced you that command is character,
That volume is authority,
that dominance is destiny.
Do not teach us
that the world is brutal
because you choose to be.
Cruelty is not nature;
It is a decision you make daily.
Lower your voice.
Strength does not shout.
True power stands still,
and needs no one to kneel.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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