The Absorption Method
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
There are two kinds of alchemists in this world:
those who transmute pain by passing it on,
and those who swallow it whole—
digesting sorrow until it settles in the bones
and renames itself endurance.
I was born of the latter kind.
A collector of discord.
A keeper of what others refuse to carry.
I learned early that peace
is not the absence of suffering,
but the art of containing it
without contaminating the room.
Most people seek equilibrium
by distribution.
They inhale cruelty
and exhale it into softer targets,
confusing release for relief.
It is how the world maintains its temperature—
warmth stolen from one,
comfort restored to another.
But I—
I became the silent centrifuge.
The one who filters what should never have been mine,
who metabolizes fury into fatigue,
and converts betrayal into stillness.
My body remembers every injustice
like a priest remembering sins.
It forgives nothing,
but it keeps the record clean.
This is the Absorption Method:
to feel everything,
and return none of it.
To become a black hole for horror,
a gravitational mercy
pulling all violence inward
until only quiet remains.
It’s a costly chemistry.
The body, over time, revolts—
bones stiffen from the weight of what they’ve witnessed,
joints catch fire with unspoken grievance,
and the tongue forgets
the shape of complaint.
Still, I endure.
Because someone must.
Because there must exist,
somewhere,
a person who ends the transmission.
And if that person is me—
so be it.
Let the ache be mine.
Let the peace be yours.
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