Love was never a heartbeat. It was the echo left behind after the heart forgot why it was still beating. It arrived wearing another person's face, its hands stitched together from promises that had already begun to rot. I welcomed it. Not because it was kind, but because loneliness knows how to mistake a wolf for warmth. Every smile it offered cast a longer shadow. Every whispered "forever" fed another ghost sleeping beneath my ribs. The thought of love is a clever liar. It builds cathedrals from broken mirrors, then asks us to kneel before our own reflections, calling the illusion destiny. How eagerly we obey. We water flowers that grow from graves, write poems to people who never truly existed, and embrace memories still unborn. Love watches. Silent. Patient. Like a spider waiting in the center of a web woven from hope. It never forces us inside. It simply lets us believe the silver threads are rays of morning light. By the time we understand, the sky has forgotten our ...
Don't stalk her.
Not every silence
is an invitation to follow.
Not every closed window
is meant to be opened.
Not every disappearing footprint
is someone asking
to be found.
Sometimes,
a wounded soul
walks into the forest
because the trees
have never asked
why she cry?
Maybe distance
is the only river
her weary heart
still knows how to cross.
Maybe she's gathering
the scattered leaves
of herself,
one autumn memory
at a time.
You see her walking away.
She remembers
the storm
that taught her
how dangerous it was
to stand still.
You see the smile
that barely reaches her eyes.
She remembers
the countless nights
when the moon
was her only witness,
when the stars
were the only friends
who stayed
until morning.
Don't judge her
because she trusts slowly.
The oldest forests
do not grow
in a single season.
Their roots
travel through darkness
long before
their branches
touch the sun.
Don't judge her
because she protects
her peace.
A bird
that escaped its cage
doesn't hurry
back inside
simply because
someone promises
a kinder lock.
What if
your judgment
is only a shadow
cast upon a story
you never had
the courage
to understand?
You know
the chapter
she allowed you to read.
She carries
an entire library
hidden beneath
the quietness
of her smile.
Every page
smells of rain,
fallen pine needles,
wild lavender,
salt from forgotten tears,
and soil
where hope
refuses to die.
Place your legs
inside her shoes.
Would they fit?
Would your feet
survive
the endless roads
lined with thorns?
Would you climb
the mountains
she climbed,
carrying
a heart
that grew heavier
with every betrayal?
Would you cross
the freezing rivers
of disappointment,
where every promise
floated away
like leaves
swept downstream?
Would you survive
the winters
that froze
her laughter?
Would you bloom
again
after every spring
arrived
only to leave
too soon?
Would your heart
still believe
in sunrise
after so many sunsets
felt like endings?
Would you still smile
if every act of kindness
was mistaken
for evilness,
for stupidity,
for weakness?
Would you still trust
if every hand
that reached for yours
left another scar
upon your soul?
Perhaps not.
So let her heal.
Let her become
like the ocean.
Some days are calm.
Some days are restless.
Always deep.
Always carrying secrets
far beneath the surface.
Do not mistake
gentle waves
for shallow waters.
Leave her
to wander
through fields
where wildflowers bloom
without applause.
Let her rest
beneath ancient oaks
whose branches
have watched
a thousand storms
come and go.
Let the wind
teach her again
how freedom sounds.
Let rivers
remind her
that moving forward
doesn't erase
where they began.
Let mountains
show her
that strength
is built
one stone
upon another.
Healing
doesn't always
look beautiful.
Sometimes
it looks
like sitting alone
beside a quiet lake,
watching ripples
carry yesterday
farther away.
Sometimes
it sounds
like rain
falling gently
upon forgotten gardens,
washing dust
from flowers
that almost
forgot
their own colors.
Sometimes
it is standing
beneath a sky
filled with stars,
finally realizing
that darkness
has never stopped
light
from existing.
Sometimes
it is the lonely howl
of wolves
echoing through valleys,
reminding the world
that surviving
is its own
kind of song.
Sometimes
it is winter,
when every tree
appears lifeless,
yet every root
is secretly preparing
for spring.
Not everyone
is running
from love.
Some people
are running
toward peace.
Toward themselves.
Toward a place
where their heartbeat
is no longer
afraid.
Respect that journey.
The river
never apologizes
for changing
its course.
The moon
never apologizes
for disappearing
before returning
whole again.
The forest
never mourns forever
when autumn
steals its leaves.
It simply waits,
patiently,
knowing
that every ending
carries
the promise
of green.
One day,
she will bloom.
Not because
someone rescued her.
But because
she learned
how to gather sunlight
even after
living beneath storms.
She will stand
like a mountain
whose cliffs
have been carved
by countless winds,
yet never surrendered.
She will dance
like tall grass
moving with the breeze,
strong enough
to bend,
wise enough
not to break.
She will shine
like dawn
spilling gold
across silent hills.
She will carry peace
the way rivers
carry reflections,
softly,
faithfully,
without asking
to be admired.
Until then,
don't stalk her.
Don't chase
what is trying
to breathe.
Don't mistake
healing
for rejection.
Don't confuse
silence
with hatred.
Don't judge
what you have never lived.
Instead,
be like the rain
that nourishes
without demanding thanks.
Be like the trees
that offer shade
without asking names.
Be like the mountains
that stand
without boasting.
Be like the stars
that shine
for everyone,
even those
who never look up.
For the strongest souls
are often
the quietest ones,
like seeds
sleeping beneath frozen earth,
like rivers
flowing beneath winter ice,
like forests
growing in silence,
waiting patiently
for the season
that finally
calls them
into the light.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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