The Corrosive Touch
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
Gather close, children,
and listen well.
There once was a soul
born with a gift so rare,
the world mistook it for power.
Everything they touched
withered by degrees—
not all at once,
but slowly, like rust
creeping through a bell tower.
Their laughter sounded like charm,
but left a bitter taste.
Their kindness came wrapped
in a thin film of control.
Even love, when offered,
turned brittle in their hands.
They called it grace at first—
the way they could strip people down
to their smallest selves,
make them doubt,
make them need,
make them stay.
But soon, the pattern spread:
friendships dulled,
truth bent,
warmth curdled to submission.
Every life they entered
lost its shine by morning.
Still, they claimed no fault.
“It’s not me,” they’d say.
“The world corrodes easily.”
And the world,
wanting to believe,
let them say it.
But those who escaped
told stories in whispers—
of the way their joy flaked off
like old paint,
of how their hearts felt thinner
after every embrace.
They say if you meet one,
you’ll know by the quiet.
By the way your laughter
echoes differently,
as if searching for permission.
By how you start apologizing
for things you never broke.
And if you feel your spirit
begin to tarnish,
your edges to dull—
run.
For there are those among us
who do not build,
who do not burn,
but corrode—
and call it love.
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:
