There is a place inside you No map has ever traced, a quiet room behind the ribs where light forgets to stay. No one sees it when you smile, No one hears it when you speak. It moves beneath your laughter like a river running deep. It is yours alone to carry, not carved for other hands, a language made of silence Only your soul understands. Some mornings it is heavier, a stone you cannot name, And still you rise and wear your life as if it were the same. But pain, it does not leave you when ignored or pushed away, it waits within the folds of time, it learns you day by day. It is not your enemy, though it cuts without a sound; it is the truth you buried but still lives underground. And yes, there are nights it breaks you, when endurance feels too wide, when even breath feels borrowed And there is nowhere left to hide. Yet somehow you continue, not because you do not fall, but because within the breaking You still answer life’s call. You learn to walk beside it, not beneath it, not above...
I know you are weary
Weary of being cast as the sacrifice
in every unfolding loss,
Weary of tending wounds
Your hands never shaped.
Your heart lies splintered,
a vessel cracked by borrowed pain,
Yet even in its ruin
It continues to beat, defiant and true.
Understand this truth:
You carry no guilt in this suffering.
You were not the error,
only the soul misplaced
among those who mistook your gentleness
for something they could bruise.
Healing is not surrender.
It is the slow remembering of who you are,
a sacred return through silence and time.
Each scar is a scripture
testifying that you endured
what would have undone others.
Remain.
This chapter, heavy with shadows,
is not the whole of your story.
The ache will loosen,
the darkness will thin,
and the pain that names you now
will one day fail to recognize you.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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