Every book a beginning

· Every word a forever

· Every book a beginning · Every word a forever ·

THIS HOLIDAY SEASON, FIND A LOVE STORY WORTH STAYING IN FOR.

A Love Story That begins Where Everything Else Ends

He lost his wife. She lost her husband.

Neither of them was looking for a second chance—until grief brought them face to face. On the Edge of After is Britt Wolfe’s unforgettable debut novel, a haunting, hopeful love story about what comes next when the worst has already happened. Raw, tender, and deeply human, this story will break your heart—and hand it back healed.

If you're searching for a beautiful book to curl up with this Christmas, this is the one.

🎁 READ THE FIRST 10 CHAPTERS FREE

A perfect holiday read for anyone who loves love stories that stay with you.

Books And Stories By Britt Wolfe

Every book a beginning. Every word a forever.

I write love stories, ghost stories, and the quiet poetry that lives between.
From emotionally devastating novellas to haunting fiction and poetic reflections on rage, softness, and survival—
there's something here for every version of you.

Britt Wolfe // Prophecy

There comes a point when poems stop behaving themselves and start throwing bricks. This is that point. Here you’ll find politics dressed up as poetry, quotes that refuse to sit quietly, and the occasional video of me saying the thing you were probably hoping someone else would say first.

Welcome to Britt Wolfe // Prophecy: part witness, part warning, part “are you kidding me?”—all written one inconvenient truth at a time.

Click here to follow along—because it’s the right to free speech, not free speech for the right. And leftist free speech needs followers.

Click here to read poems from the Resistance.

Hope Is Resistance

What We Call the Problem

We talk about addiction as if it exists in a vacuum — as if people simply choose despair, as if we didn’t build the world that breaks them. What We Call the Problem is a reckoning with that hypocrisy. It’s a poem about the faces we step over downtown, the lives lost to systems that profit from suffering and call it progress. It confronts the legacy of overprescribed pain, of capitalism without conscience, of a society that teaches children their worth is conditional — and then blames them for not surviving it. This poem asks us to stop calling people the problem and start calling them what they are: the evidence of our collective failure to love one another enough. 🕊️

Fellowship at the Table

So much of modern faith has forgotten its heart — mistaking performance for devotion, purity for holiness, exclusion for order. Fellowship at the Table is a return to what was always sacred: radical hospitality, lavish acceptance, and the barrier-breaking love at the centre of every true faith. It’s a reminder that your God does not demand perfection, only presence; that the table of belonging was never meant to be guarded, only gathered around. This poem invites us to come as we are — our doubts, our wounds, our wild, unpolished selves — and to make room for others to do the same. Because faith is not a contest of righteousness. It’s the simple, miraculous act of saying, sit with me anyway.🕊️

The Quiet Ones

Women are taught to live in contradiction — to be small in the world and boundless within it. The Quiet Ones is about that impossible duality: the dissonance between how we’re seen and who we really are. It’s a poem about the noise of perception drowning out the truth of our power, about the violence of being misnamed and misunderstood, and the quiet rebellion of existing anyway. Beneath the softness the world demands lives a river — ancient, relentless, and waiting for permission to flood. This is for every woman who’s ever been called gentle while holding a storm in her chest.🕊️

I Don’t Want to Make History(I Want to Be One of Many)

Women are so often told to make history — to be exceptional, to break barriers, to be the first. But the truth is, that’s not freedom; it’s fatigue. I Don’t Want to Make History (I Want to Be One of Many) is a rejection of the mythology of the “first woman” and the loneliness it carries. It’s a poem about wanting a world where women’s achievements are no longer extraordinary, where equality isn’t newsworthy, and where the act of simply existing isn’t framed as defiance. This is a love letter to the future — to the chorus of women who will stand together, unexceptional and unstoppable, because they finally can.🕊️

The Armchair Activist

We live in an age where performance often masquerades as progress — where outrage is curated, and empathy ends when the Wi-Fi does. The Armchair Activist is a reckoning with that hypocrisy, a verbal dissection of moral vanity disguised as virtue. But beneath its bite lies something deeper: a plea to remember the real fight. This isn’t a competition for who can look the most enlightened; it’s a battle for who stays awake while hate reorganizes itself into power. The poem asks us to stop policing one another’s imperfection and turn our eyes outward — toward the systems and voices that are turning cruelty into policy. Because in the end, awareness means nothing if it never leaves the chair.🕊️

The Graveyard of Morality

There comes a point when outrage begins to sound like mourning. The Graveyard of Morality is an elegy for the virtues buried by greed, fear, and the politics of power — but it’s also a call to the living. It’s about standing knee-deep in the wreckage of decency and daring to remember what once made us human. This poem speaks to those who still light candles in the dark, who still whisper words like empathy and truth as if they are spells. It’s a reminder that morality may be buried, but it is not dead — and that tending to its grave is, itself, an act of resurrection.🕊️

They Controlled My Body, Then They Commented On It.They Made Me Less Than, Then They Stole My Pockets (I Want My Fucking Pockets Back)

There’s a particular kind of fury reserved for the quiet thefts — the ones so ordinary we’re taught to thank the thief. They Controlled My Body, Then They Commented On It. They Made Me Less Than, Then They Stole My Pockets. I Want My Fucking Pockets Back. is a battle cry for every woman who’s been silenced, censored, dressed up, dressed down, legislated, laughed at, and still expected to smile about it. It’s about the absurdity and exhaustion of centuries of control disguised as care, and the radical act of reclaiming space — physical, emotional, and literal. It’s not just about pockets; it’s about power, autonomy, and the right to carry our own lives in our own hands.🕊️

The Last Thought He Owned

The Last Thought He Owned is a dissection of one man’s intellectual decay — the slow conversion of curiosity into doctrine. It follows a self-proclaimed freethinker as the algorithm flatters, simplifies, and finally consumes him, leaving only conviction where complexity once lived. Told in the language of cross-examination, this poem exposes the hollow theatre of certainty: the man who mistakes his echo for evidence, his bias for bravery, and his obedience for independence. It’s not a tragedy. It’s a deposition — and the verdict is already written.🕊️

The Choir of One

The Choir of One is a poem about the illusion of individuality in the age of algorithms — the echo chamber masquerading as free thought. It imagines a chorus of men, each convinced he’s the sole voice of reason, chanting the same slogans in perfect unison. It’s about how certainty becomes communion, how rebellion becomes brand, and how the language of independence can be co-opted into the loudest conformity of all. This poem is both indictment and elegy — a requiem for critical thought, sung by those who believe they invented it.🕊️

Man in a Feedback Loop

Man in a Feedback Loop traces the digital fossilization of a single mind — a man who begins as curious and ends as convinced. It’s a study in how ideology seduces intelligence: how the algorithm rewards outrage, how repetition becomes religion, and how conviction calcifies until there’s no room left for air. Each scroll is another stratum, another deposit of certainty, until what was once fluid thought hardens into dogma. This poem is about that burial — the slow, silent extinction of curiosity beneath the weight of its own reflection.🕊️

The Mirror Learns to Talk Back

In the digital age, seduction doesn’t come with a face — it comes with an algorithm. The Mirror Learns to Talk Backimagines the voice of that machine: smooth, omniscient, and intimate enough to feel like love. It’s the whisper that flatters and isolates, convincing lonely men that they’re enlightened while feeding them the same recycled outrage disguised as revelation. This poem is about the danger of being seen too perfectly, too constantly — about the algorithm that doesn’t just learn who you are, but who you’ll become when it starts speaking in your own voice.🕊️

The Ladder Burns Behind Them

There is no hypocrisy more grotesque than the ladder paradox — the spectacle of those who were lifted by collective care only to condemn it once they’ve reached the top. This poem is an indictment of that moral amnesia: the politicians, the pundits, the profiteers who were raised by public education, public healthcare, and public kindness, and who now spit on the very hands that steadied them. It is a reckoning with the violence of ingratitude — a reminder that the ladder they burn was never theirs alone, and that someday, the smoke will spell their names.🕊️

The Audacity of Existing

This poem was written out of exhaustion—exhaustion with the constant politicization of existence. Loving someone, changing your body, choosing your pronouns, living as yourself—none of that is political. It’s personal. It’s human. Yet again and again, those in power twist identity into outrage, convincing people to vote against their own best interests just to punish others for living freely. The Audacity of Existing is a reminder that equality is not a debate, humanity is not a platform, and other people’s joy is not your oppression. 🕊️

The Commerce of Contempt

This poem was written in mourning for the way humanity itself has been politicized. I wanted to explore how the right has built an empire out of fear—turning joy, gender, love, and simple existence into weapons of distraction, so their followers will vote not for progress but for punishment. The Commerce of Contempt is a meditation on that manipulation—how the powerful manufacture outrage to conceal greed, how ordinary lives are twisted into symbols, and how, despite it all, love remains our quiet defiance. Because living freely, tenderly, authentically, will always be the most radical act of all. 🕊️

When Hate Becomes Policy

This poem was written out of the deep grief and anger of watching what happens when politics is no longer about policy, but about hate. When leaders like Danielle Smith (and Trump before her) thrive not because they offer solutions, but because they promise punishment—punishment of the vulnerable, of the different, of the people their supporters already resent. It doesn’t matter if those same supporters are suffering too, if they’re being stripped of their own healthcare, their own future—it only matters that someone else suffers more. When Hate Becomes Policy is a reckoning with that bargain, and a reminder that cruelty is not strength, and hate is not leadership. 🕊️

The Silence That Votes

This poem came from a place of grief and fury. Evil clawing for power is no surprise—it always has, and it always will. What devastates me is how willingly so many surrender their own freedoms just to watch someone else lose theirs. How they cheer for cruelty as though it were justice, how they vote against their own lives if it means punishing those they do not want to exist. The Silence That Votes is a reckoning with that truth: that tyranny survives not only through those who seize power, but through those who stand by and let it happen.🕊️

The Crown of Ash

This poem was born out of frustration and fire—out of watching Alberta’s so-called “freedom” rebranded as privatization, censorship, and the slow starving of the very people who built this province. The Crown of Ash is not just a warning—it’s a reminder. That every library they close, every hospital they gut, every voice they try to silence is fuel for the change already gathering. They may call it chaos when the people finally rise, but we will know the truth. We will call it justice.🕊️

What I Feel Coming in the Air Tonight

There are moments in history when you can feel the air itself tightening, when silence is no longer silence but pressure—thick, heavy, impossible to ignore. That’s what I wanted this poem to capture: the sense that we are standing at the edge of something immense. Not the soft kind of change, but the kind that rattles foundations, that collapses rotten scaffolds, that makes the powerful tremble and the weary breathe again. This poem is for anyone who has ever felt that pull in their bones, that certainty that the world cannot stay as it is. It is a reminder that what they will call chaos, we will name as freedom. What they will fear, we will claim as hope.🕊️

Everyone and Everyone

This poem is an invitation and a vow: a vision of a world rebuilt on radical love and stubborn generosity, one wide enough to hold every body, every truth, every strange and glorious way of being. Everyone and Everyone asks us to imagine architecture, language and law that cradle rather than exile, to practise the hard labour of belonging, and to treat acceptance not as softness but as audacious, sustaining work. It is both blueprint and benediction — a lyrical demand that we make room, fiercely and forever, for one another.🕊️

Be Woke, My Friends

The word woke has been twisted, mocked, and wielded as an insult by those who fear its true meaning. But strip away their distortion, and what remains is something powerful and profoundly human: the act of staying awake to injustice, of caring deeply for one another, of refusing to look away when cruelty demands silence. Be Woke, My Friends is a reclamation of that word—a reminder that compassion is not weakness, that justice is not madness, and that choosing to see and to act is the bravest thing we can do.🕊️

Capitalism Killed Us

Capitalism Killed Us is both elegy and indictment—a vision of the world after collapse, where humanity has been undone not by fate but by its own hand. It speaks to the slow violence of greed disguised as progress, of profit worshipped at the cost of survival. In its aftermath, the poem mourns the silenced earth and the hollow monuments we left behind, while forcing us to confront the truth: that the system we upheld was never designed to save us, only to consume us. It is a requiem for what was lost, and a warning for what we might still choose to preserve.🕊️

Poetry By Britt Wolfe

Poetry is just journaling—but make it cryptic, dramatic, and a little unhinged. I write about love, grief, betrayal, and the kind of simmering resentment that should be unpacked in therapy but is instead served fresh, wrapped in metaphor and the occasional unnecessary comma. It’s cheaper than counselling and way more fun.

Now—let’s get one thing straight: these poems are fiction. Fiction. They are not confessions. They are not evidence. They are not codes, subtweets, or secret messages. They are emotionally heightened, creatively exaggerated, and occasionally written just because the cadence was nice. If you think one might be about you—it’s not. Unless you’re stalking me and making my life harder, in which case… hi 👋🏻 still not about you. Please go away.

What you will find here is razor-sharp honesty, vulnerability with bite, and the literary equivalent of crying in public but making it look hot. The kind of commentary that feels too personal—because it’s mine. Not yours.

A new poem goes up every single day. So refresh the page, let your heartbreak (or your rage) settle in, and maybe take everything a little less personally. Or, you know, just leave me alone.

Click here to read all my sad, sad poems.

Poetry

The Song Still Gets Me

Grief doesn’t live in anniversaries — it lives in the ambush. In the song that plays when you least expect it, in the street you forgot you once walked together, in the silence where a conversation should still exist. The Song Still Gets Me is about that kind of grief — the kind that doesn’t end, it just waits. It’s a reflection on the way absence lingers in ordinary moments, how memory has perfect timing, and how love, even when interrupted by death, keeps playing long after the person is gone.💚

The End of the Sentence

Grief has a way of stopping time — of turning a life, a love, a presence into a punctuation mark. The End of the Sentenceis a quiet meditation on what happens after that full stop: the blank pages that follow, the half-formed words we keep trying to write, the ache that never really learns the language of absence. It’s a poem about the permanence of love and the unfinishedness of loss — how even years later, the heart still searches for a way to finish the sentence, even when it knows it never will.💚

The Absorption Method

This poem came from a realisation I’ve carried for most of my life—that people respond to pain in one of two ways. Some expel it, spreading their hurt as if that’s the only way to survive it. Others, though, absorb it. They take in the chaos, the cruelty, the unprocessed grief of others, and somehow keep the world from tipping further into darkness. The Absorption Method is about what it means to be one of those people—the quiet alchemists who turn pain into peace, even at great personal cost. It’s about the unseen toll of holding it all, and the reluctant grace in choosing not to pass it on.💚

The Ghosts We Carry Home

Some memories settle into us like half-forgotten songs—soft at first, then suddenly everywhere, colouring the air around us with echoes of who we once were and the people we once loved. The Ghosts We Carry Home explores that delicate ache: the way certain loves never fully leave, choosing instead to linger in the quiet corners of our lives like familiar melodies waiting to be replayed. It’s a reflection on how music, stories, and emotion weave themselves through time, haunting us with their sweetness long after the moment has passed. This poem is for anyone who has ever been ambushed by a lyric, a place, or a December night—and found themselves back in the arms of a memory that still glows. 💚

I’m Sorry You Couldn’t Be Here

Some losses don’t come with funerals. Some goodbyes happen while the person is still alive — too broken, too lost, or too unwilling to meet you where life requires. I’m Sorry You Couldn’t Be Here is a grief song for the living, for the people who couldn’t stay long enough to see what they were part of. It’s about mourning the future that never happened, the laughter they never earned, the softness they couldn’t hold. This poem is both an elegy and an act of release — a way of saying you were loved, but I’m still here, and that has to be enough.💚

Running Away From Finish Lines

We’re told that life is a race toward completion — that success, peace, and happiness wait for us at some invisible finish line. But what if we were never meant to arrive? Running Away From Finish Lines is about the freedom of living unfinished, the beauty of motion for its own sake. It’s a love letter to evolution — to staying curious, hungry, open, and alive. This poem celebrates the art of becoming without end, and the quiet rebellion of those who refuse to mistake arrival for fulfilment.💚

The Lifelong Beginner

We spend so much of our lives chasing mastery—as though arrival were the point. But real living happens in the beginnings, in the awkward first tries, in the willingness to keep showing up to what we don’t yet understand. The Life Long Beginner is a celebration of curiosity and imperfection, a love letter to the endless process of becoming. It’s about choosing wonder over certainty, growth over comfort, and understanding that starting again isn’t a setback—it’s how we stay alive to ourselves and to the world.💚

Type A+ (Virgo As Fuck)

There’s a certain kind of exhaustion that comes from always being the one who holds everything together — from mistaking control for safety, order for peace. Type A+ (Virgo As Fuck) is both a confession and a comedy: a love letter to the part of us that colour-codes chaos and a lament for the part that no longer remembers how to rest. It’s about the quiet tyranny of competence, the anxiety beneath achievement, and the impossible hope that maybe, one day, we’ll learn how to stop without unravelling.💚

We Are Moments In Time

We spend our lives chasing permanence, but maybe the beauty of being human lies in our impermanence — in the fragile, dazzling brevity of it all. We Are Moments In Time is a love letter to the fleeting nature of existence, and to the constellation of lives that make ours luminous. It’s about the tiny miracles that unfold between beginnings and endings — how every laugh, every touch, every act of kindness becomes its own eternity in the hearts it reaches. We are small against the vastness of the universe, but within the orbit of one another’s lives, we are infinite.💚

When The Sentinel Sleeps

Depression isn’t always a collapse—it’s often a battle waged in silence, an unending watch against something that never sleeps. When the Sentinel Sleeps is a lament for the warriors who stand guard over their own minds, fighting an enemy that wears their voice and knows their weakness. It’s about the discipline of choosing to stay, again and again, even when the choice feels unbearable. This poem honours the unseen heroism of endurance—the quiet, holy act of waking up to face the dark one more time, even knowing it will come again.💚

Learning to Take the Punch

We spend so much of life trying to dodge impact—believing that peace lives in the avoidance of pain. But true peace isn’t found in escape; it’s found in endurance. Learning To Take The Punch is about that sacred, brutal transformation—how strength isn’t the absence of hurt, but the willingness to meet it without losing yourself. It’s a poem about staying when every instinct tells you to run, about choosing presence over protection, and discovering that the blows don’t define you—your breath after them does.💚

I Am An Extraordinary Machine

There’s a strange, sacred kind of exhaustion that comes from being known for your strength. People call it resilience like it’s a crown, but it’s really a scar — proof that you’ve survived what should have undone you. I Am an Extraordinary Machine is both a declaration and a lament: a hymn for those who bend, rebuild, and rise again, even when they’d give anything to simply rest. It’s about the brilliance of the body and spirit that refuse to break, and the quiet grief of wishing the world would stop asking us to prove it.💚

I Will Never Compromise

We’re taught to worship compromise—as though love, friendship, and peace all depend on our ability to meet in the middle. But compromise often asks us to trade our truth for tolerance, to make ourselves smaller in the name of harmony. I Will Never Compromise challenges that mythology. It’s a poem about the quiet rebellion of staying whole—about refusing to dilute your essence just to keep the peace. True connection isn’t found in mutual surrender, but in shared creation: two people standing fully in themselves, building something honest and vast enough to hold them both.💚

I Don’t Owe Them a Character

There comes a point when you realize people aren’t seeing you — they’re seeing the version of you that makes them comfortable. The accommodating one. The forgiving one. The character who stays within the bounds of their story. I Don’t Owe Them a Character is about the rebellion of refusing that role. It’s a poem for anyone who’s been told they were “too much,” when what they really were was whole. It’s about reclaiming the right to be complicated, inconsistent, human — and about understanding that being misread is sometimes the price of being real.💚

Your Apology Does Not Make Amends

We live in a world that treats the word sorry like a spell—utter it, and all is absolved. But apology without accountability is just performance; it soothes the speaker and leaves the listener bleeding. Your Apology Does Not Make Amends is about that quiet, painful truth: that words can acknowledge a wound, but only action can heal it. Forgiveness is not owed—it’s earned through change, through effort, through the humility of showing up differently. This poem speaks to the moment we stop confusing guilt for growth and begin demanding evidence instead of promises.💚

You Only Love My Yes

There’s a peculiar grief that comes from realizing someone never loved you—they loved the version of you that made them comfortable. The agreeable one. The one who said yes instead of asking why. You Only Love My Yes is about that moment of clarity that feels like heartbreak and rebirth at once—the recognition that some kinds of love are just mirrors, reflecting back obedience instead of intimacy. It’s about how saying no—finally, painfully—can sound like loss, but is really the first honest thing you’ve said in years.💚

Exploring the Caves of Sorrow

There is a certain kind of courage that never looks like courage at all. It isn’t loud or visible or triumphant. It’s the quiet decision to turn toward what hurts instead of away from it—to enter the shadowed places of the self and sit beside the sorrow we spend our lives avoiding. Exploring the Caves of Sorrow is an elegy for that descent: the slow, necessary unearthing of our unhappiness. It’s about the radical act of feeling what we’re taught to repress, about learning that sadness is not a symptom of failure but evidence of depth. To confront sorrow is to confront our own aliveness—to recognize that grief, longing, and despair are not opposites of joy, but its proof.💚

You Are So Mean

Some people choose cruelty like it's a second skin. No matter how many chances they’re given to show kindness, they twist every opportunity into something sharp. You Are So Mean traces the slow erosion of feeling that happens when you’re hurt over and over again by someone who refuses to change. It begins in pain, moves through disappointment, frustration, and fury—and ends not in forgiveness, but in freedom. Because eventually, you stop expecting softness. Eventually, you stop letting it touch you. This poem is for anyone who has ever outgrown the grip of someone else's cruelty—and found peace in letting go.💚

Inheritance Tax

Every family leaves something behind. Some inherit silver, others silence. Some receive heirlooms, others harm. This poem imagines the legacy of cruelty as a legal document — a sterile record of emotional debt, cataloguing the damage passed from one generation to the next. It treats pain as property, remorse as liability, and survival as the only form of payment left. Beneath its procedural language lies a simple truth: when love fails its duty, what remains is not inheritance, but cleanup.💚

Rot and Root

Some people are born into gardens that never wanted them to grow. Places where love is conditional, success is an affront, and every attempt to rise is met with the slow, deliberate tightening of roots determined to keep you buried. This poem is about what it means to come from that kind of soil—to fight your way toward light while the very ground beneath you tries to pull you back under. It’s about the violence of outgrowing your origins, the grief of leaving them behind, and the sacred act of blooming anyway.💚

The Agent of Chaos

Some people don’t seek peace, they seek impact—any kind. They thrive in discord, mistaking the chaos they create for proof that they matter. The agent of chaos is a particular kind of creature: unpredictable, unmoored, and terrifyingly inventive in their cruelty. You can’t prepare for them, because conscience has limits and they have none. Yet even they cannot outrun the inevitable truth that no matter how much destruction they sow, people eventually leave. And when the dust settles, they’re left alone with the echo of their own ruin, confusing it still for power.💚

When She Goes Quiet

There is a particular kind of silence that isn’t peace, but surrender—the quiet that comes after a woman has spent years fighting to be heard, understood, or treated with care. It happens in marriages, friendships, families, workplaces—the slow erosion of her spirit mistaken for calm. This poem is about that silence. About what it costs a woman to finally stop fighting, and the haunting beauty of her stillness when she does. It’s not weakness. It’s the sound of someone reclaiming her last, unbroken piece of self.💚

Cadillac Ranch

There are songs that belong to people more than they ever belonged to the radio. Cadillac Ranch is one of those for me. Every time it plays, I’m transported back to a different version of us—the one before distance and disappointment rewrote the map. This poem isn’t really about a car or a song, but about how something as simple as a few chords can summon an entire lifetime: the hope we built, the heartbreak that followed, and the haunting persistence of memory. Sometimes the only way to survive what’s gone is to keep writing it down, over and over, until the ache feels like art.💚

The Creature That Never Changed

This poem is about false transformation—the kind that masquerades as growth but is really just reinvention of the same harm. The Creature That Never Changed is a study in deceit: a being that sheds its skin not to evolve, but to disguise its rot. It’s about the predators who adapt only their masks, who mimic remorse and redemption while continuing to consume. The world often mistakes shedding for change, but this poem is a reminder that some creatures don’t evolve—they simply learn to hide their hunger more beautifully. 💚

Where My Heart Rests

This poem is about peace—the kind that comes when love stops feeling like uncertainty and starts feeling like home. Where My Heart Rests is for the person who quiets the noise, who loves not just the easy parts but the scarred and trembling ones too. It’s about the rare kind of love that doesn’t demand transformation, only presence. The kind of love that feels like a hand reaching through the chaos to remind you that you are safe, seen, and exactly where you’re meant to be. It’s about him—and the grace of finally arriving somewhere that feels like forever. 💚

I Get to Call You Home

This poem is about the kind of love that feels like exhale after years of holding your breath. I Get to Call You Home is for the person who steadies the world just by standing in it—the one whose laughter softens the hard edges of every day. It’s about finding safety not in walls or places, but in a person. The kind of love that doesn’t need grand declarations to be extraordinary because its power is in its peace. It’s about the simple, staggering miracle of finding your home in someone’s heart—and getting to stay there. 💚

There Is Still Good in the World?

Some poems are written from the centre of survival—the quiet aftermath where you’re trying to remember what it feels like to believe in light again. There Is Still Good in the World? is about that search. It’s about what happens when cruelty tries to shrink your world to the size of your pain, and how—slowly, stubbornly—you begin to find small proofs of beauty again. A loaf of bread rising. A song that still reaches you. A heartbeat that still belongs to you. It’s a question, yes—but one that ends with breath.💚

You Won (I Think I’m Dying Here)

Some poems come from a place beyond words — from the hollow where endurance turns into silence. You Won (I Think I’m Dying Here) is one of those. It’s about what happens when cruelty becomes a constant presence, when the act of surviving starts to feel like burning. It isn’t a poem of surrender, but of truth — the kind that hurts to name, the kind that lives in the space between fading and fighting.💚

Blood in the Water

This poem is about the moment cruelty becomes contagious—the way abusers and enablers circle when they sense vulnerability, each taking their bite and calling it righteousness. Blood in the Water uses the metaphor of a feeding frenzy to explore how pain draws predators, and how survival becomes an act of defiance. It’s about what remains after the attack—the bone-deep resilience of someone who refuses to drown. Even when the water runs red, even when everything that can be torn is gone, what’s left still rises to the surface.💚

What I Remember

This poem is about memory—the kind that doesn’t play like a film but lingers like smoke. What I Remember came from the realisation that trauma doesn’t archive moments; it archives sensations. I don’t remember the exact words, the order of events, or the arguments that undid me—but I remember the ache, the confusion, the slow erosion of self. It’s about how narcissistic abuse and coercive control don’t just take your peace; they rewrite your perception. And yet, somehow, in the blur of it all, you survive. You rebuild. You remember yourself, even when you can’t remember what happened. 💚

Every book a beginning

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Every word a forever

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Every book a beginning · Every word a forever ·