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...
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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