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...
Not as easy as it looks,
this quiet survival dressed as grace,
this careful balance on a thinning line
between holding on
and letting something inside you break.
You see the surface,
the steady hands, the measured breath,
the way I move like I’ve memorized
How not to fall apart in public.
But you don’t see the tremor beneath it,
the way my bones hum with exhaustion
from carrying what I never put down.
There is a darkness here,
not loud, not screaming,
But patient.
It waits in the corners of my thoughts,
in the silence after conversations end,
in the long nights where sleep
feels like something I no longer deserve.
It’s not as easy as it looks
to wake up and pretend
That yesterday didn’t leave fingerprints
on everything I touch.
You think it’s a strength,
this way I keep going,
This way I show up
as if nothing inside me is unraveling.
But strength is a word people use
when they don’t know what else to call
a person who has no choice.
Because stopping,
That’s where the real danger lives.
If I stop, even for a moment,
I might hear everything I’ve buried,
every doubt whispering louder,
Every regret is crawling back
from the places I hid them.
So I keep moving.
Not because I’m brave,
But because stillness feels like drowning.
There are nights
When the dark doesn’t stay outside.
It seeps in quietly,
fills the room,
settles in my chest
like it belongs there.
And I lie awake, staring at the ceiling,
counting the seconds
between breaths,
not to calm myself,
but to remind myself
I’m still here.
Still here.
Even when it doesn’t feel like living.
Not as easy as it looks
to smile when your mind
is a battlefield of unfinished thoughts,
to laugh when your chest
feels hollowed out,
to speak when your voice
feels like it’s borrowed from someone stronger.
I have learned the art of disguise,
how to wear normal like a second skin,
how to answer “I’m fine”
with just enough conviction
to make people believe me.
And they do.
They always do.
Because no one looks for cracks
in something that still stands.
But there are cracks.
Hairline fractures in the way I think,
in the way I trust,
in the way I carry memories
that refuse to stay in the past.
They show themselves
in small, quiet ways,
in hesitation,
in overthinking,
in the way I brace myself
for things that haven’t happened yet.
It’s not as easy as it looks
to keep rebuilding yourself
from pieces that don’t fit the same anymore.
To wake up each day
and gather the fragments,
this version of me,
that version of me,
the one I used to be
before everything shifted.
And somehow,
make them resemble a person.
You see resilience.
I feel repetition.
The same battles,
the same thoughts,
the same quiet war
fought behind a steady face.
Over and over again.
And yet,
I’m still here.
Not whole.
Not unbroken.
Not untouched by the dark.
But here.
Breathing.
Enduring.
Continuing in a world
that never slowed down
long enough for me to catch up.
So when you say
“It looks easy,”
understand this,
what you’re seeing
is not ease.
It’s survival
refined into something
that doesn’t ask for help.
It’s pain
taught how to stay quiet.
It’s a person
learning how to exist
with the weight of everything
they never said out loud.
Not as easy as it looks.
Not even close.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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