I Don’t Owe Them a Character
They prefer me simpler—
a single shade they can name,
a softness that flatters the story
they’ve already written.
They want me distilled to archetype:
the wounded girl who learned grace,
the resilient woman who forgave,
the one who keeps her voice pleasant
even when she’s bleeding.
They praise my strength,
but only when it’s silent.
They call me inspiring,
but only when I am suffering
with composure.
They want a lesson, not a life.
A narrative arc that bends neatly
toward redemption—
as if healing were linear,
as if survival were aesthetic.
But I am not a symbol.
I am not their closure.
I am the messy middle
that refuses to resolve.
I am the woman who outgrew
her own good behaviour.
Let them whisper that I’ve changed.
Let them mourn the version of me
that stayed agreeable.
I’ve learned that shrinking
is a form of loyalty I no longer owe.
If I must choose between being liked
and being real,
then let them keep their comfort.
I’ll keep my complexity.
I’ll keep the right to contradict myself,
to want and un-want,
to be both tenderness and teeth.
They wanted a character.
But I am the whole book—
and they were only ever reading the margins.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe
