It’s Not Blood

It’s not blood.
If it were, I’d have drowned in it by now—
that river of inheritance running red with everything
they never learned to name.

Blood is just the echo of those who came before,
the faint drumbeat of history repeating itself
until someone finally drops the stick.

It’s not blood.
It’s choice.
It’s who looks at the wound and doesn’t flinch.
Who says, it ends with me.
Who builds a life that isn’t a monument to their pain.

Some people cradle their brokenness
like an heirloom,
passing it down polished and familiar.
They call it tradition.
They call it family.
They call it love.

But there are others—
quiet, steady, luminous—
who take the shards and make something holy.
Who rewrite the story without needing applause.
Who prove that healing is not rebellion,
it’s resurrection.

And when I look at them—
the ones building better,
loving softer,
choosing differently—
I know the truth at last.

It was never blood that bound us.
It was courage.

Keep My Words Alive

If this poem has stayed with you, you can help keep my words alive or explore more of my work. Every bit of support helps carry the stories forward.

---

WHERE WORDS MEET MORNING LIGHT
BEGIN EACH DAY WITH SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL

Every morning at 7:11AM, I send a poem — sometimes soft, sometimes devastating, always true.

💚 Subscribe now to read and breathe and feel along with me 💚

---

Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe: