There was a house inside my chest Where every window had been broken, Curtains hanging like tired prayers, Doors swollen shut from years of storms That no one noticed. The floors remembered every footstep Of grief that walked barefoot through me. Every goodbye stayed like dust On shelves I no longer touched. Even laughter sounded abandoned there. I became familiar with darkness. Not the kind that visits at night— The kind that moves into your bones, Unpacks its sorrow, And calls itself home. People said, “Time heals.” But time only watched me drown quietly While pretending I still knew how to swim. I smiled with exhausted eyes, Spoke in half-hearted breaths, Carried entire wars in my ribs While the world mistook silence For strength. Hope left slowly. Not like lightning. Like winter. One cold hour at a time. Until mornings felt meaningless, Mirrors became strangers, And my soul sat alone Like an orphan waiting for a name. Yet healing, Healing did not arrive beautifully. It did not come...
It was never easy,
not a path adorned with mercy,
nor softened by the kindness of fate.
It was a road carved in stone,
unyielding beneath trembling feet,
where each step demanded
a fragment of my strength.
Hardships did not arrive gently,
they came like relentless tides,
crashing against the fragile shores
of all I thought I was.
They spoke in storms,
in sleepless nights,
in burdens that settled
deep within the marrow of my being.
Life, once tender in its promise,
turned bitter upon my tongue,
a taste I could not escape,
sharp, lingering,
unforgiving in its presence.
Days unraveled into struggles,
stitched together with exhaustion,
while nights became long corridors
of wandering thoughts,
echoes of doubt
that refused to be quiet.
There were moments
I felt myself dissolving,
becoming less than whole,
less than certain,
as if existence itself
had forgotten my name.
I bent beneath the weight,
I faltered in silent corners,
I carried storms
No eyes could see.
And still,
something within me
refused to surrender.
A quiet defiance,
fragile yet unbroken,
whispered through the ruins:
continue.
Though the world grew heavy,
though hope seemed distant,
though every breath felt borrowed.
I remained.
Not untouched,
not unscarred,
but present,
a living testament
to endurance shaped in silence.
Survival is not always
a triumphant cry,
It is often a whisper,
a trembling persistence,
a soul choosing to stay
When leaving feels easier.
And so I speak it now,
not as a victory,
But as truth etched deep
into the fabric of my existence,
It was not easy.
Hardships found me.
Life grew bitter and unkind…
Yet through it all,
through every fracture and fall,
I endured.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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