The Soft Animal of Me Refuses to Die
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
The soft animal of me
has outlived wars I never chose,
carried grief that didn’t belong to her,
and rebuilt herself quietly
in rooms where no one thought to look.
I used to think survival meant
becoming harder, sharper,
a blade forged in the kiln of hurt.
But no—
the truth is softer than that.
More defiant.
I lived because I refused
to put my gentleness down.
Because even bleeding,
I still cupped my own face in my hands
and whispered,
Not yet. Not you. Not today.
The world kept swinging,
but softness kept standing.
And that,
I’ve learned,
is its own kind of fury.
And now I know:
the soft animal of me
was never meant to disappear.
She was meant to endure—
to rise with trembling limbs
and a heartbeat stubborn enough
to outlast the darkness.
She was meant to show me
that survival is not the closing of the heart,
but its widening—
a rebellion so tender,
so relentless,
that even the world must pause
and remember how to breathe.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
