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...
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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