The Horror Show
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
Ladies and gentlemen, gather close—
the curtain is trembling,
the lights are dim,
and tonight’s performance
is one you already know by heart.
Witness the oldest story ever told:
the pageant of pain,
the inheritance of harm,
the lineage of love rewritten as control.
Step right up to the stage of generations—
where cruelty wears a family crest,
and tenderness is taught
to take its beating quietly.
Behold the illusion of affection—
how it glitters beneath the gaslight,
how easily devotion becomes debt.
Watch the performers smile
with bleeding teeth,
their applause cued by obligation.
Here, the script never changes.
Here, roles are passed down like heirlooms:
the saviour, the scapegoat,
the silent one who learns to disappear.
Each plays their part,
each learns the choreography of survival.
Listen—
can you hear it?
The hush before the cruelty lands,
the laughter rehearsed to hide the crack.
Every gasp is genuine,
every tear collectible.
And yet—
beneath the velvet rot of the tent,
something stirs.
A trembling hand loosens its grip on the rope.
A performer forgets her line.
The audience shifts, uneasy,
as one lone figure steps out of the spotlight
and into the dark.
There is no applause.
Only the creak of release.
Only the sound of the tent sighing open,
as if the night itself were exhaling—
finally—
after centuries of performance.
And so, dear spectators,
the horror show continues—
until it doesn’t.
Until someone decides
that silence is not the same as peace,
and inheritance is not destiny.
Until the curtain falls
and no one claps.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
