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 ...
Once, love lived softly in this home,
now every wall remembers raised voices.
Peace packed its bags long ago,
leaving echoes of arguments in its place.
He comes and goes like changing weather,
storms in, vanishes, returns unannounced.
Each time he leaves, something breaks;
Each time he returns, nothing is repaired.
She waits with anger clenched in her chest,
a fire she cannot release,
words swallowed, tears uncounted,
smiles worn thin by exhaustion.
Being his wife feels heavier each day,
a title stitched with disappointment.
Her heart no longer dances at his name,
it only braces for the next wound.
She is tired of forgiving cycles,
tired of loving alone in a shared life.
Happiness no longer recognizes her,
and home no longer feels like shelter.
In silence, she begins to understand—
love should not hurt this loudly.
She left without saying a word to him.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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