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...
It is still me,
the same woman who once unraveled
at the gentle tremble of your voice,
who mistook your presence
for something sacred,
something that would stay.
Still me,
the one who gathered your broken words
like they were rare jewels,
polished your silences
until they shone like meaning,
until I could call them love
without choking on the truth.
I am she,
the girl who danced in your shadows,
who laughed where you left emptiness,
who filled the quiet spaces
You never cared to understand.
You played me,
softly, almost beautifully,
like a melody half-written,
never meant to be finished,
only meant to be felt
and then abandoned.
I was your passing moment,
your borrowed warmth,
the softness you reached for
when loneliness grew too loud.
And I,
foolishly faithful to your illusion,
wrapped myself around your absence,
called it presence,
called it love,
called it forever
when it was never meant to last.
It is still me,
the same heart you held without care,
the same soul you touched
without intention.
You spoke in fragments,
in promises that dissolved before dawn,
Yet I built constellations from them,
mapped my entire sky
around words you never meant.
Tell me,
Was I ever more than convenience
dressed in affection?
Was I ever more than a quiet place
for your restless heart to land
before it wandered again?
Because I remember,
every almost,
every nearly,
every moment that felt like love
until it wasn’t.
I remember how you smiled
like truth lived in your eyes,
How you held me
like I was something worth keeping,
only to let me slip
through your hands
like I was never yours at all.
Still me,
the one who waited in the in-between,
who lingered in the spaces
You never claimed,
who loved you
in the language of permanence
while you spoke only of temporary things.
I bent for you,
softened my edges,
dimmed my light,
folded my worth
into something small enough
for you to hold without fear.
And you,
You called it love.
But love does not fracture a soul
and call it patience.
Love does not take
without ever giving shape in return.
Love does not leave a heart
questioning its own reflection.
Yet still,
It is me.
The same woman
who cried in silence
So no one would hear
how deeply she was breaking.
The same woman
who stitched herself together
with trembling hands,
threaded with pain,
sewn with the quiet understanding
that she had been fooled
in the name of something holy.
But look again,
Really look.
Because it is still me,
yes,
But I am no longer the same.
The tears you never saw
have carved strength into my bones.
The nights you left me empty
have taught me how to be whole on my own.
I have gathered every shattered piece
You left scattered in your wake,
And I have turned them
into something unbreakable.
Still me,
but no longer yours to confuse,
no longer yours to borrow,
no longer yours to undo.
I am the woman
who has learned the difference
between being wanted
and being valued.
The woman who no longer mistakes
temporary warmth
for eternal love.
So yes,
It is still me,
the one you once played with,
the one you once used,
the one who loved you
more honestly than you deserved.
But now,
I stand untouched by your illusions,
untethered from your half-truths,
unmoved by the memory of your hands.
It is still me,
only now,
I am no longer the story
You get to rewrite.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
Comments