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...
You called it love,
as if the word could cleanse what you did,
as if naming it softly
could make it holy.
You called it romantic,
like a mask painted over ruin,
like sweetness draped over something
That was never gentle to begin with.
But it was never love.
It was a shadow wearing your voice,
a hunger disguised as devotion,
a silence that learned how to speak
only to deceive.
It was a sin,
quiet at first,
then growing louder
in the places she trusted most.
An evil deed wrapped in tenderness,
hands that pretended to hold
while quietly breaking.
And she,
She believed you.
Not because she was blind,
but because she knew how to hope
in ways the world never deserved.
You took that hope
and turned it into something fragile,
something that shattered
The moment the truth arrived was too late.
She did not fall,
She was pushed,
slowly, carefully,
with words that sounded like care
but carried nothing but control.
And when she finally understood,
It was not escape she felt first,
It was a fracture.
A breaking so deep,
It echoed inside her silence.
Not love,
never love,
but a sin carved into memory,
a stain that no apology could reach,
No time could soften.
You left her in pieces
and still called it beauty,
still called it connection,
still called it fate.
But there is no romance
in destruction disguised as affection.
There is only damage.
Only ruin dressed as meaning.
Only the truth could,
She survives alone.
And she learned,
slowly, painfully,
that what you called love
was never meant to hold her.
Only to break her.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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