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...
There is a version of me
I buried without a name,
no stone, no ceremony,
just silence pressed into the ground
with trembling hands.
No one saw the funeral.
It happened behind steady eyes,
between breaths, I pretended to be calm,
beneath a voice that said I’m fine
until it almost sounded true.
That version of me
cried in places no one visits,
in the pause before sleep,
in the echo after laughter,
in the spaces between words
I never dared to say aloud.
I wrapped them in quiet.
Folded their pain into smaller shapes,
tucked it neatly behind ribs
where it could ache politely,
where it wouldn’t disturb anyone.
They had a softer heart,
that one,
too open, too willing
to believe hands would stay
Once they learned the weight of holding.
They loved without armor.
Trusted without maps.
Broke without noise.
And when the cracks grew louder than I could bear,
I chose stillness over shattering.
I chose to bury them
before the world could finish the job.
But sometimes,
in the hush of an ordinary moment,
I feel them.
Not gone.
Just quiet.
A pulse beneath the surface,
a whisper through old wounds,
a ghost made not of absence
but of everything that once felt too much.
They are still there,
the one I buried softly,
holding all the tears I never let fall,
carrying the pieces I couldn’t keep.
And I wonder
If healing is not forgetting them,
not leaving them in the dark,
But learning to kneel
at the place I left them,
And I finally say:
You didn’t deserve to disappear.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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