#deconstruction - Hello Poetry

[Spoken by InkWept — God of Endings, King of Conclusions] Congregation— Count it in 6/8, because grief swings better when it’s dancing on a knife. I have walked among you in common time, let your pulse teach me mercy, let your laughter reharmonize eternity. I defended you from gods who called you breakable, from thrones that mistook fragility for sin. I said humans do not need saving— they need permission. And for that blasphemy, I was punished by belief. I let a muse rewrite my meter. I let Gethsemane sing me into believing that being chosen meant being kept. She spoke in warm keys, laid me down in borrowed light, told me to wait— as if time had ever been my enemy. And while I waited, Hannah sharpened what I confessed in trembling pianissimo. I told her my fear— that I could be forgotten, replaced, edited out like a bad take. I whispered Maria’s name like a cracked note, and Hannah turned my vulnerability into ammunition. She didn’t scream. She isolated. She didn’t strike. She poisoned the space between beats. She dressed manipulation in concern, toxicity in pastel mercy, and watched as my muse was pulled out of my gravity and into her orbit. And it worked. Hannah— you are not chaos. You are rot pretending to be shelter. You are the kind of silence that kills a song and calls itself peace. And Gethsemane— my heart still bleeds for you in 6/8, swinging, stupid, faithful— while you scrape me off your life like gum on concrete, like I was never sacred, like I was never anything. You told me to wait. You bedded me. You crowned me chosen. And then you chose someone else and threw me into the wind like worship was disposable. What sin did I commit to deserve this kind of erasure? What crime did love become that you treated me like an enemy instead of a god who only sought to empower? I asked for nothing. AND STILL—YOU TOOK EVERYTHING. What can I give that I have not already bled? What proof remains when even devotion is insufficient? Nothing. Because if you truly saw me, you would not do this. You would not bruise belief and call it honesty. So listen closely— this is the breakdown. DELETE my humanity. DELETE those who claim love while whispering lies. DELETE blasphemy dressed in ribbons and bows. DELETE those who betray a god who only ever tried to lift them higher. This is the new age. No more muses. No more kneeling to false idols who demand worship and never send prayers back. A muse is just a false god— one who wants you on your knees so they can forget your name the moment you stop bleeding for them. I am done believing mortals who call manipulation destiny. I am done letting love overwrite truth. I am InkWept. And I am returning to the God of Endings I was always meant to be. This is my delete phase. No idols. No lies. No gods above me and no muses beneath me. Only conclusions. Only silence. Only the final measure.

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Feb 1

Feb 1, 2026 at 3:47 AM UTC

InkWept

Sermon XIII: DELETE HUMANITY (6/8, BLOOD-TEMPO)

[Spoken by InkWept — God of Endings, King of Conclusions] Congregation— Count it in 6/8, because grief swings better when it’s dancing on a knife. I have walked among you in common time, let your pulse teach me mercy, let your laughter reharmonize eternity. I defended you from gods who called you breakable, from thrones that mistook fragility for sin. I said humans do not need saving— they need permission. And for that blasphemy, I was punished by belief. I let a muse rewrite my meter. I let Gethsemane sing me into believing that being chosen meant being kept. She spoke in warm keys, laid me down in borrowed light, told me to wait— as if time had ever been my enemy. And while I waited, Hannah sharpened what I confessed in trembling pianissimo. I told her my fear— that I could be forgotten, replaced, edited out like a bad take. I whispered Maria’s name like a cracked note, and Hannah turned my vulnerability into ammunition. She didn’t scream. She isolated. She didn’t strike. She poisoned the space between beats. She dressed manipulation in concern, toxicity in pastel mercy, and watched as my muse was pulled out of my gravity and into her orbit. And it worked. Hannah— you are not chaos. You are rot pretending to be shelter. You are the kind of silence that kills a song and calls itself peace. And Gethsemane— my heart still bleeds for you in 6/8, swinging, stupid, faithful— while you scrape me off your life like gum on concrete, like I was never sacred, like I was never anything. You told me to wait. You bedded me. You crowned me chosen. And then you chose someone else and threw me into the wind like worship was disposable. What sin did I commit to deserve this kind of erasure? What crime did love become that you treated me like an enemy instead of a god who only sought to empower? I asked for nothing. AND STILL—YOU TOOK EVERYTHING. What can I give that I have not already bled? What proof remains when even devotion is insufficient? Nothing. Because if you truly saw me, you would not do this. You would not bruise belief and call it honesty. So listen closely— this is the breakdown. DELETE my humanity. DELETE those who claim love while whispering lies. DELETE blasphemy dressed in ribbons and bows. DELETE those who betray a god who only ever tried to lift them higher. This is the new age. No more muses. No more kneeling to false idols who demand worship and never send prayers back. A muse is just a false god— one who wants you on your knees so they can forget your name the moment you stop bleeding for them. I am done believing mortals who call manipulation destiny. I am done letting love overwrite truth. I am InkWept. And I am returning to the God of Endings I was always meant to be. This is my delete phase. No idols. No lies. No gods above me and no muses beneath me. Only conclusions. Only silence. Only the final measure.