The Agent of Chaos
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
You move through lives
like a match through tinder—
all spark and spectacle,
no warmth.
Your talent is ruin,
your art form, unrest.
You call it honesty.
You call it truth-telling.
But it’s only hunger—
a need to be known,
even if it’s for the damage.
You craft storms
out of thin air,
twisting words into knives,
and then weeping
when you bleed.
You mistake the cut
for connection,
the wound
for worship.
There is no predicting you.
Even the most vigilant soul
cannot outthink
a mind untethered to mercy.
You are chaos distilled—
a force that devours
its own purpose.
And still, you believe
you are the one wronged,
the misunderstood fire
in a world of ice.
But there’s nothing holy
about a blaze that never learns
to stop burning the hands
that tried to hold it.
Your control is an illusion—
a desperate hand gripping
the strings of your own unraveling.
And one day,
when the smoke clears,
you’ll find the room empty.
Everyone you scorched
will have walked into the open air,
lungs stinging but free.
You will stand
in the ashes of your making,
calling it solitude,
calling it strength,
but knowing—
if only for a flicker—
that it was always fear.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
