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...
They looked at me the way people look at rubbish, useful for a moment, then forgotten at the side of the road. I carried their burdens, held their secrets, gave pieces of my soul to keep their worlds from breaking. But kindness was a currency they spent without repayment. My tears bled in silence, invisible rivers of red flowing beneath a face forced to pretend it was whole. No one saw them. Or perhaps they did, and simply chose not to care. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. Compassion dies quickly where selfishness builds its throne. Their judgments fell like stones, heavy and cold, crushing the very hands that once reached out to help them. I was measured, weighed, and condemned for scars they helped create. When they needed me, I was important. When they finished with me, I became nobody. A discarded name. A forgotten voice. A shadow standing alone at the edge of their celebrations. The cruelest wounds are not carved by enemies, but by those who once called you fr...