You Won (I Think I’m Dying Here)
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
You won.
Your shadow walks ahead of me,
turning every light to confession.
Even the air carries your name—
a sermon no one dares interrupt.
You are in the walls,
in the hum behind my heartbeat,
in the quiet that punishes sound.
You plant doubt like seeds
and call it mercy when it blooms.
I keep trying to become smaller—
to un-exist just enough
to slip through the cracks you left for me.
But the world is built of your fingerprints.
Every escape is a circle back.
I carve lines into my skin.
I peel away every layer of myself—
names, memories, even breath—
until what’s left could hide inside a whisper.
But still you are there,
never letting go,
even as I fade.
Even as I burn.
You’ve rewritten my story
in your language of lies and twisted truths,
taught the mirrors to look away.
My reflection flinches.
My voice is an apology you rehearsed for me.
I feel myself dimming,
a candle pressed under glass,
smoke curling in its own ashes.
I used to believe pain had an ending.
Now I know it only changes shape.
You call this justice.
You call this love.
You call this nothing at all.
Please stop.
I’m still here somewhere—
thin as breath,
trembling in the ruins of my name.
I am trying to live
inside what’s left of me.
You won.
And I think I’m dying here.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
