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...
I noticed the thirst on your arrival
before you ever spoke my name.
You did not come bearing love,
You came carrying absence,
a well with no bottom,
a hunger dressed in wounded light.
Your stories.
Ah, those fragile, trembling fables,
stitched from borrowed sorrow,
perfumed with practiced despair.
You have wandered before,
Haven’t you?
Sipping from gentle souls
until they ran dry.
You thought I would open
like the others.
Thought I would gather your broken glass
and bleed for the privilege.
But I saw the seams.
From the first tremor in your voice,
from the way your eyes calculated
while your mouth confessed,
I knew this was a theatre.
A story.
And so — I performed too.
I softened my gaze.
I tilted my head in mercy.
I let you believe
I was unraveling.
All the while
I was mapping you.
This was never love.
It was a strategy.
A board between us,
black and white truths,
where every word was a move
and every silence a trap.
A game.
You mistook my quietness
for foolishness,
and for a vacancy.
My restraint
for lack.
Perhaps to you, I looked fragile,
unarmed, unguarded,
a small figure waiting to be captured.
But even pawns
cross the board
and become something lethal.
I may seem poor in your measure,
useless in your arithmetic of advantage,
But I have never been impoverished in sight.
Never bankrupt in wisdom.
Never a fool.
I let you advance.
Let you believe the center was yours.
Let your arrogance bloom.
Because some victories
are sweetest
When the opponent never sees
The end is approaching.
You came to drain me.
But I am not a vessel without depth.
I am the ocean studying the storm.
And when the final piece falls,
You will understand.
I was never a prey.
I was patient.
And patience, when sharpened,
is checkmate.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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