I Didn’t Consent To This
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
I didn’t consent to this—
to the way my nervous system
rewrote itself
around the sound of your breathing.
No one warned me
that love could be invasive
in such a gentle way.
That it could enter without violence
and still rearrange the furniture.
I didn’t agree
to become someone
who sleeps lightly
when you’re not there—
as if my body
is keeping watch for you,
as if rest requires witnesses now.
I didn’t sign anything
that said your absence
would feel like a missing limb
I can still function without
but notice constantly.
This was not disclosed.
The way confidence would appear
not as bravado,
but as ease.
The way I would start standing
as though I belonged
in the room.
The way mornings would matter more
because you are supposed to be in them.
You turned the world
from something I endured
into something I anticipate.
That feels actionable.
Legally questionable.
I did not consent
to becoming softer
and stronger at the same time.
To learning that safety
can be a person
and not a location.
To realizing that being known
does not reduce me—
it steadies me.
I did not consent
to loving you
so thoroughly
that my first thought upon waking
is not obligation
but orientation.
Where are you?
There you are.
And yet—
here I am.
Signed willingly.
Initialed everywhere.
Because while I didn’t consent
to this transformation,
I would choose it
again,
deliberately,
with full knowledge
of the consequences:
the ache when you’re gone,
the quiet joy when you return,
the way my life
now leans toward you
without collapsing.
Call it a beautiful violation.
Call it love.
Either way,
I’m not filing a complaint.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
