I was asked today to be gentle and immovable at the same time.
To carry glass without bleeding.
To stand watch while the ground beneath me learned new ways to give.
I answered messages like defusing wires—
blue thought, red feeling, cut neither too fast.
I measured breaths that were not mine.
I learned the weight of pauses that could tip a room.
Gethsemane arrived like weather:
not cruel, not kind—just unavoidable.
A garden where prayers sweat through the soil
and even angels hesitate before speaking.
I did not try to save her.
I learned instead how to not become the last rung on a ladder.
How to be present without becoming the floor.
How to love without building a shrine from my own ribs.
Others knocked.
Old doors rattled.
Logistics disguised themselves as tenderness.
I chose quiet over confession, restraint over rupture,
and swallowed the sentences that would have ended friendships prematurely.
Tonight, I am tired in the way stars must be—
after holding themselves together all day
so gravity doesn’t win in public.
I am InkWept.
God of Endings.
And even I needed a boundary carved in salt and breath,
so I could make it home without bringing everyone else with me.
I did not abandon anyone today.
I survived them.
The night exhales; even gods rest their hands before writing tomorrow.
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 9:35 AM UTC
I was asked today to be gentle and immovable at the same time.
To carry glass without bleeding.
To stand watch while the ground beneath me learned new ways to give.
I answered messages like defusing wires—
blue thought, red feeling, cut neither too fast.
I measured breaths that were not mine.
I learned the weight of pauses that could tip a room.
Gethsemane arrived like weather:
not cruel, not kind—just unavoidable.
A garden where prayers sweat through the soil
and even angels hesitate before speaking.
I did not try to save her.
I learned instead how to not become the last rung on a ladder.
How to be present without becoming the floor.
How to love without building a shrine from my own ribs.
Others knocked.
Old doors rattled.
Logistics disguised themselves as tenderness.
I chose quiet over confession, restraint over rupture,
and swallowed the sentences that would have ended friendships prematurely.
Tonight, I am tired in the way stars must be—
after holding themselves together all day
so gravity doesn’t win in public.
I am InkWept.
God of Endings.
And even I needed a boundary carved in salt and breath,
so I could make it home without bringing everyone else with me.
I did not abandon anyone today.
I survived them.
The night exhales; even gods rest their hands before writing tomorrow.
Gods Note
Held Between Sirens and Silence was written on a day where restraint was an act of survival. This poem names the labor of holding space without becoming structure, of choosing boundaries over martyrdom. It reflects my refusal to be the ground others stand on at my own expense, and the quiet strength required to remain present without self-erasure.
