Type A+ (Virgo As Fuck)
Poetry and Prose by Britt Wolfe
I make lists for my lists.
Colour-coded hierarchies of order and doom.
Every task has a subtask.
Every day has a contingency plan.
Even my spontaneity is scheduled.
I keep a calm exterior
by panicking in advance.
I do not wing it.
I build wings out of spreadsheets,
and then I fly them directly into burnout.
My mind never idles.
It revs—
a machine that measures worth
in completed checkboxes
and polite collapse.
They call me reliable,
and I glow with the compliment
like a warning light.
I say yes because I can,
and because if I say no
the world might find out
how fragile I really am.
I’ve tried to rest.
It feels like failure.
I’ve tried to meditate.
I end up planning my enlightenment.
Even my silence has an itinerary.
There are nights I ache for stillness—
for a mind that doesn’t rehearse every possible ending
before I’ve lived the middle.
But I was raised on the religion of competence,
and faith dies hard.
So I keep going.
Refining.
Optimizing.
Pretending that control
isn’t just fear wearing productivity as perfume.
Yes, I’m Type A.
Actually, Type A+.
Perfection’s project manager.
Virgo as fuck.
High-functioning.
Low-resting.
And if the world needs saving,
I’ve probably made a Google Doc for that too.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe
