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...
If your interest fades, do not dress it as love,
Do not wrap distance in smiles and borrowed gifts,
I do not want offerings meant to confuse my heart
Or gestures rehearsed to keep me quiet.
Step aside with honesty, not performance,
Let your silence speak plainly,
Tell me when you are finished
So I may stop waiting for what no longer comes.
Do not pretend affection where none exists,
I would rather face the truth barehanded
Than to be held by a lie
That slowly teaches me to doubt myself.
If you are done, say it without cruelty,
I will not beg, I will not chase,
I will open my hands, release you gently,
And let you go with my dignity intact.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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