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 ...
Simply beautiful—
Yes, to the eye.
A face the world admires,
a smile that convinces.
But inside,
Your heart is like rotten bread,
soft once, perhaps,
now taken over by mould,
spreading easily, quietly,
without resistance.
Evil settles in your deeds,
so cold it forgets gentleness,
So sharp it forgets mercy.
A woman in form,
yet stripped of warmth,
carrying a stone where a heart should rest.
No softness lives there,
no pause before cruelty,
no echo of compassion.
What shaped you this way?
What storms hardened your soul?
What pain taught you to wound without regret?
You are not what you appear to be.
Beauty stops at your skin
and dares not go deeper.
Oh God— Who is this Lady?
Who is she?
Behind her mask, the world is fooled.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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