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 ...
She said “I do” with hopeful eyes,
Believing in love, not hidden lies.
She couldn’t see the mask he wore,
A gentle face, a heart at war.
A narcissist in tender skin,
Where love grows thin, and control begins.
His touch was sharp, his silence loud,
Fear wrapped her like a heavy cloud.
His hands carried unspoken pain,
His words fell hard like bitter rain.
She bled inside where none could see,
A quiet loss of who she’d be.
Yet through the hurt, a truth came through:
The cost of staying was her too.
And in that wound, she found her plea
To choose herself, to be set free.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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