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...
Don’t be naïve.
Do not dress this ruin
in silks of misunderstanding.
There was no hidden tenderness here,
no buried cathedral of feelings,
waiting to be discovered.
I never cared.
Not in the way you deserved,
not with a pulse that quickened at your name,
not with a soul rearranged
by your presence.
I never loved you.
What you mistook for warmth
was rehearsal.
What you held as promise
was practice.
I was only passing through,
a traveller pausing at a lit window,
borrowing its glow
without intention of staying.
A practice was needed.
So was I.
I tried on affection
like a garment before a mirror,
tilted my head
to study how concern might look
if it belonged to me.
I learned the lines,
the softened voice,
the attentive silence,
the careful reach of my hand toward yours.
But the truth,
unyielding as winter,
remains:
I never cared.
Not when you spoke of forever.
Not when your eyes searched mine
for something deeper
than reflection.
There was nothing cruel in me,
only emptiness,
a hollow room
where echoes pretended to be music.
You were real.
I was rehearsing.
And though I stood beside you,
though I spoke the language of closeness,
my heart was elsewhere,
unclaimed,
untouched,
untethered.
Don’t be naïve.
Some people arrive
not as destiny,
not as love,
but as lesson,
passing through the fragile architecture
of another’s hope,
leaving behind the cold clarity
of what was never there.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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