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...
I laugh—
not because joy visits me,
but because silence would expose
the ruins I carry inside.
This laughter is crooked, rehearsed,
stitched from fragments of survival,
a sound born where the heart collapsed
And pretense was crowned the only remedy.
Why must life be sculpted this cruel—
where honesty bleeds too openly,
and smiling becomes the final language
spoken by the broken?
I laugh while my soul fractures quietly,
while memories sharpen their knives,
while trust rots into betrayal
And enemies gather wearing familiar skin.
Here, treachery and kinship share a table,
toasting with the same poisoned cup,
and I drink—smiling—
because resistance only deepens the wound.
This smile is not peace,
It is a ceasefire with pain,
a fragile treaty signed by a bleeding heart
that cannot afford another war.
So I laugh—
loud enough to fool the world,
soft enough to not wake the grief,
and broken enough to remind me
that this, too, is life.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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