When The Sentinel Sleeps
Poetry and Prose by Britt Wolfe
She stands watch at the edge of herself,
where the ground gives way to the black maw of forgetting.
There are no trumpets, no banners, no glory here—
only the endless discipline
of staying alive.
The enemy waits just beyond the light.
It is patient.
It does not roar; it breathes.
It studies her rhythms,
learns the pattern of her pulse,
the precise moment her guard begins to falter.
It is not chaos.
It is cunning.
Depression is a strategist—
it knows when to whisper,
when to bite,
when to dress itself in gentleness
and call itself rest.
She holds the line with what she has left:
routine, ritual, resolve.
The soft armour of movement,
the fragile shield of remembering—
you want to be here.
You want to be here.
The nights are the hardest.
That’s when the enemy comes closest,
pressing its teeth against the fabric of her thoughts.
She can feel its hunger humming—
a low, familiar growl
that promises relief disguised as release.
Sometimes she trembles.
Sometimes she forgets
that trembling is not the same as surrender.
When the sentinel sleeps,
the world tilts.
The creature slinks in—
soft-footed, almost tender,
ready to reclaim what daylight borrowed.
It touches her shoulder like forgiveness
and calls her by her truest name:
weary.
But even then,
somewhere in the dim architecture of her being,
a single spark stirs—
a stubborn ember that refuses translation.
It flares, just enough,
and she wakes.
She wakes.
She remembers.
She reaches for the light,
hands shaking,
and the enemy retreats,
snarling, unfinished.
Tomorrow, it will return.
It always does.
But so will she.
That is the quiet miracle—
not that she wins,
but that she keeps fighting.
And the world,
unaware of what it owes her,
keeps turning.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe
