There Is Still Good in the World?
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
There was a time when the world was wide.
Then you began your work—
pushing, twisting, tightening the air
until it fit the shape of your lies and cruelty.
You became the only sound.
The only shadow.
The only sky.
Each day smaller than the last,
until even my breathing felt like it was yours.
You called it truth.
You called it justice.
You called me nothing at all.
I called it survival—
this slow self-erasure,
this carving down to what might still fit
inside the corners you hadn’t claimed.
For a long time, I thought you’d won.
That there was no outside of you,
no other colour but the grey of your making.
You filled every mirror.
You named every silence.
But grief has strange seeds.
They wait.
And one morning, I opened my eyes
and saw something small that wasn’t you—
the tail of a dog wagging in sleep,
a loaf rising in a warm kitchen,
a red panda on a screen,
a song that reminded me
I still have a pulse.
Taylor singing about beginnings,
Gracie whispering about survival,
sunlight sliding across the floor
like forgiveness.
There is still good in the world—
I think.
I’m trying to believe it.
It looks like Sophie’s mismatched eyes,
and Lena’s slow purr against my ankle.
It sounds like laughter
from a sister’s red hair
and an unexpected text that says home.
It feels like air,
cold and honest and mine.
I’m still learning how to breathe it.
But I am breathing.
And that has to mean
there is still good in the world.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
