What I Remember
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
I don’t remember the words.
Not the exact ones.
They’ve slipped somewhere between sleep and survival,
dissolved like ink in rain.
I don’t remember the order of things—
which lie came first,
which silence lasted longest,
which door I learned to stop knocking on.
But I remember the aftermath.
The ache that hummed beneath my ribs
long after the noise was gone.
The way my hands shook when no one was watching.
The way I rehearsed apologies
for crimes I never committed.
I remember the dissonance—
how love could sound like punishment,
how concern could taste like control,
how praise could bruise.
I remember the confusion
of learning to distrust my own reflection.
The hours I spent retracing steps
through conversations I never actually won.
The moment I realised the story
had been rewritten while I wasn’t looking.
The details are gone—
mercifully, maybe.
But the body keeps its own archive.
Every muscle still flinches
at the ghost of your tone.
Every heartbeat still double-checks the room
for danger that isn’t there.
So no,
I don’t remember it.
Not the specifics.
But I remember me—
the girl trying to stay soft
in a world that called her delusional
for feeling too much.
And I remember the day she finally left,
not with fanfare,
not with fury,
but with quiet certainty.
Because some memories aren’t worth keeping.
But survival always is.
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BEGIN EACH DAY WITH SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
