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...
They named her their daughter-in-law.
before she learned her own name.
Marriage found her young,
not as a choice,
but as a destination already decided.
Her hands were trained
before her mind was asked.
Sweep. Cook. Obey.
Fetch water before sunrise,
carry firewood before thought.
This is the alphabet she was taught.
Village dust settled into her thoughts,
not because she lacked vision,
but because no one let her look past the hills.
Days repeat like commands—
live, work, sleep, repeat—
a body moving on borrowed instructions.
She lives under rules that never asked her consent.
Love is a duty.
Silence is respect.
Endurance is praised as strength.
She moves like a machine
that never learned it could choose its direction.
The city is a rumor.
Education, a foreign language.
Opportunity, a story told to other women,
in other words,
with better luck at birth.
And yet—
this is the cruelest part—
No one knows what she could have been.
No one tested her mind.
No one stretched her curiosity.
No one gave her light
or freedom,
or a book that asked questions instead of giving orders.
She might have been brilliant.
Strategic.
Inventive.
A voice meant for rooms beyond mud walls.
A talent large enough for the globe,
compressed into survival.
What a world she is living in-
not because she is small,
But because her world was made small for her.
And a good life, in a place she lives,
means learning how to live well under marriage rules,
To live like a slave and disappear
without ever being called lost.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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