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...
The master of pretence,
You called him your lover.
He moved through your heart
like a grandmaster over polished squares,
measuring silence,
calculating weakness,
seeing not you,
but position.
You were never a queen in his kingdom,
never the fierce diagonal of power.
You were a pawn,
advanced when useful,
sacrificed when convenient,
praised only when it served his endgame.
His smile was strategic.
His touch, a tactic.
Even his apologies
were rehearsed openings
designed to keep you in play.
And you,
you mistook the game for destiny.
You called manipulation a mystery,
called red flags roses,
called his absence depth.
Wake up from this velvet slumber.
The board was never sacred.
It was staged.
Cheating runs in his veins
like inherited instinct,
deception in his bloodstream,
betrayal of his pulse.
He does not stumble into lies;
He breathes them.
Real love does not exist
in his constructed world.
There, affection is currency,
loyalty is leverage,
and hearts are trophies
arranged on invisible shelves.
But you are not carved wood.
You are not confined to squares.
Step off the board.
Let him play alone
with his hollow victories,
crowning himself king
over a kingdom
made entirely of mirrors.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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