The Water Of The Womb

Poetry By BRITT WOLFE Author

Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe

They told me
blood was everything.

That it ran deeper
than choice.
Than distance.
Than truth.

That it tethered me
to people
I did not choose
but was expected
to keep.

They spoke of it
like a promise.

Like something sacred
by default.

Like the water I came from
would always call me back
no matter
what waited for me there.

But water
is not always gentle.

Sometimes
it drowns.

Sometimes
it holds you under
and calls it belonging.

I spent years
trying to breathe
in places
that never made room for me.

Trying to love
in ways that asked me
to disappear
just enough
to be acceptable.

Trying to honour
something
that did not honour me.

Until I learned
there is another kind of blood.

Not the kind
you are born into.

The kind
you choose.

The kind
that finds you
in the dark
and says—
stay.

My coven.

Not bound by obligation
but by recognition.

By the quiet knowing of
there you are
I have been looking for you.

They do not ask me
to be smaller.

They do not ask me
to soften the edges
of who I am
to make themselves comfortable.

They hand me back
the parts of myself
I was taught to hide
and say—
these are not flaws.

These are the reasons
we love you.

With them,
love is not survival.

It is expansion.

It is laughter
that comes easily.
It is silence
that does not feel like punishment.
It is being held
without being reshaped.

They have poured life into me.

Real life.

The kind that pulses.
The kind that steadies.
The kind that reminds me
I am not too much
or not enough
or anything
I was once made to believe.

And I would choose them
again
and again
and again.

Not out of duty.

Out of devotion.

So let the water
return to where it came from.

Let it ebb
and pull away
and take with it
everything that asked me
to endure
instead of live.

I am no longer anchored there.

I am not bound
by what I was born into.

I am carried
by what I have chosen.

The blood of my coven
runs through me now.

Not by birth
but by bond.

Not by expectation
but by love.

And it is stronger.

It is deeper.

It is mine.

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Poetry by Britt Wolfe:

Britt Wolfe

Britt Wolfe writes emotionally devastating fiction with the precision of a heart surgeon and the recklessness of someone who definitely shouldn’t be trusted with sharp objects. Her stories explore love, loss, and the complicated mess of being human. If you enjoy books that punch you in the feelings and then politely offer you a Band-Aid, you’re in the right place.

https://bio.site/brittwolfeauthor
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