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 ...
Life unveils itself in naked light,
Through shattered hopes and endless nights.
It speaks in trials, sharp and slow,
In wounds you never chose to know.
Each setback carves the soul with fire,
Each betrayal destroys passion.
What breaks you open, piece by piece,
Is where delusions eventualy end.
Tears fall, not as signs of defeat,
But rather holy waters, sweet fluids.
They cleanse the heart of borrowed dreams,
And strip the world of false regimes.
Your fate arrives in broken ways,
Disguised as loss, disguised as pain.
Sudden turns you never planned
Lead trembling feet to firmer land.
And day by day, through scar and flame,
Your destiny learns its true name.
Not written once, nor sealed in stone,
But shaped by the truth you face alone.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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