Meet Me in My Words:
Why I Write to You Every Morning
Every morning, I write something new — sometimes soft, sometimes sharp, always true. The poems arrive before the world wakes: small attempts at making sense of being human, stitched together with metaphors and caffeine.
When you subscribe, that day’s poem finds you first — landing in your inbox every single morning at 7:11AM. No scrolling, no noise, no algorithms. Just words waiting quietly for you, reminding you to pause, to breathe, to feel.
Think of it as a shared ritual: one poem, one breath, one moment of belonging before the day begins.
And if you’d like to linger a while, you can meet me in my words below. 🌿
I AM NOT SO EASILY UNDONE
Some people mistake your existence as an attack, as if the simple act of breathing in your own skin is defiance aimed at them. They build entire battles out of shadows, convinced that if they can erase you, they will finally find peace. But survival is not submission. This poem is for every soul who has been targeted by another’s delusion—and chosen, instead, to remain unshaken, unvanquished, and undeniably here.💚
THIS TIME, I DON’T THINK WE’RE COMING BACK
I turn forty-two today, and with it comes the weight of knowing I have spent a lifetime running toward someone who was already walking away. This poem is not just a farewell—it is a reckoning, a surrender of the chase, an unflinching record of blood, betrayal, and the hollow ache of a father who chose to tie his own hands behind his back. It is the most painful gift I can give myself: resignation to the truth, finally written down.💚
THEY WILL NEVER OWN MY STORY
There are people who will spend their lives trying to rewrite you, twisting truth until it frays, scattering words like weapons in the hope that you will mistake their version of you for your own. This poem is for every woman who has stood in the wreckage of those lies and chosen, instead, to rise as the author of her own story.💚
Ghost of Myself
There are days when I feel like I’m fading from my own life, as though my world has been rewritten without me at its centre. The weight of being silenced, erased, or pushed aside leaves me drifting—half here, half gone. This poem is my attempt to give those feelings shape, to put words to the ache of becoming a ghost in the story that should have been mine.💚
My Healing Is Louder Than Their Hate
There is something sacred about surviving what was meant to break you. Something radiant about choosing healing over hate—again and again—no matter how loud the world tries to drown you out. This poem is a declaration. A reckoning. A love letter to the version of me that refused to disappear. My Healing Is Louder Than Their Hate is not about them—it’s about the fire I carry now. The peace I earned. And the voice I’ve built from ash and defiance. If you’ve ever risen from something meant to ruin you, this is for you too. Let them whisper. Let us roar.💚
Now I Believe in Hell: The Gospel According to What You Did
This poem is a scripture born of survival. Now I Believe in Hell: The Gospel According to What You Did is not a metaphor, not a catharsis—it is testimony. It is the sacred record of harm that was not incidental but intentional, not overlooked but orchestrated. In these lines, the concept of Hell becomes no longer spiritual, but structural—something built by a man who chose cruelty again and again, with eyes wide open. This is not about what was allowed. It is about what was done. And though it bears the shape of a father, it carries the voice of a witness refusing to let history lie. This is gospel, not of faith, but of fire. And it burns with truth.💚
Disappearing Like Vapour
This poem is an elegy for everything we lose that never truly leaves. Disappearing Like Vapour explores the way time doesn’t erase so much as it softens, fading our moments into atmosphere—until what remains are ghosts of memory, shadows of meaning, and echoes of lives once vividly lived. It’s about walking through the present with a heart attuned to the past, feeling the pulse of history in stairwells, streets, and silences. In every place we inhabit, something once happened. Someone once was. And if we listen closely enough, we can still hear them—like breath against glass, vanishing but never gone.💚
To Memorize You
Some love is so vast, so holy, it refuses to be casual. It insists on remembering. This poem is a quiet vow—to the people who make my life full, to the ones who hold my heart without ever asking, and most of all, to Sophie and Lena. It’s about the aching privilege of witnessing them, loving them, and wanting to keep every detail, every second, every breath safely tucked inside me. Because nothing lasts forever—but memory, if we love hard enough, just might.💚
The Air Up Here
There’s something sacred about the kind of peace that comes after chaos—the way your lungs remember how to fill completely once the weight is gone. This poem is about that. It’s about living fully, freely, and with joy in the aftermath of survival. Some people will know exactly what I mean. And some won’t. That’s the beauty of it.💚
Through Rose-Coloured Glass
There are times in life when survival depends not on strength, but on softness. On the gentle act of turning your gaze just slightly away from the thing that might undo you. This poem was born from that space—from the ache of pretending, of pressing forward with a painted smile and carefully arranged silences. It’s about the quiet performance of being okay, the beauty and burden of rose-coloured glasses, and the way we sometimes choose illusion not out of cowardice, but out of necessity. Because some truths are too sharp to carry daily. And sometimes, the only way to keep moving is not to look too closely.💚
If I Am Gone By Morning
This poem is a love letter meant for the impossible moment—the one we never want to imagine but all silently fear. If I Am Gone By Morning is what I would want the love of my life to carry in their heart if I didn’t get another day, another breath, another chance to say it out loud. It’s a hymn of devotion, a whisper across time, a promise that love—when it is real, when it is chosen with your whole soul—never truly ends. It lingers in the laughter, in the quiet, in the very air we leave behind. This is everything I would want them to know, if tomorrow came without me in it.💚
The Table
This poem is about the kind of absence that lingers—when someone you once made space for stops showing up, and you’re left to rearrange the table around the silence. It’s about hope that turns into ritual, and the quiet sorrow of learning to stop preparing for someone who no longer arrives. Sometimes we let go not with anger, but with exhaustion. And even then, the ache has a way of finding its seat.💚
From One Ghost to Another
Some losses are too quiet for funerals. Some griefs don’t get eulogies. There are people we mourn not with flowers or tears, but with the weight we carry in silence—the ones we still reach for in dreams, or hear in the pauses between sentences. This poem is for them. For the ones who were never properly held, never properly remembered. It’s a love letter written in the language of absence. From one ghost to another.💚
You’re a Photocopier
Some people don’t raise children—they replicate themselves. They breed cruelty, not through neglect, but through intention. They reward manipulation, feed delusion, and call it strength. And when the monster they created grows louder, sharper, more unrestrained than they ever dared to be, they act shocked. As if it wasn’t them who loaded the machine. As if it wasn’t them who pressed copy. This poem is about what happens when evil doesn’t just repeat—it escalates.💚
She lit the fuse herself
There’s a particular kind of self-destruction that masquerades as power. A detonation disguised as a declaration. This poem was born in the silence that follows that kind of explosion—the kind triggered by one’s own hand, in one’s own name, aimed at no one but echoing everywhere. It’s not a poem about revenge. It’s not even a warning. It’s simply a mirror held up to what happens when you light the fuse, press send, and forget to step back.💚
IF GOD IS A FATHER
This poem is called If God Is A Father, and it’s the most personal thing I’ve ever written. It’s about the grief of losing my faith—not through rebellion or doubt, but through the example of my own father. I was taught that God is a father, and so I watched mine. And what I saw was cruelty, absence, punishment without accountability, and a love so conditional it could barely be called love at all. This poem is a reckoning. With the mythology I was handed. With the harm that was justified in His name. With the silence that still echoes. It’s not just a rejection of the God I was taught to worship—it’s a refusal to let that kind of fatherhood define what I believe in ever again.💚
THE FAILURE OF THE FATHER GOD
This next poem is called The Failure of the Father God. It’s a deliberate and direct reckoning with the concept of God as a father—a metaphor I was handed as a child, and one that never brought me comfort. In fact, it mirrored the harm I was already trying to survive. This poem isn’t subtle. It’s not meant to be. It’s for every woman who was told to kneel in gratitude while being broken, for every daughter who was asked to call silence “love,” and for anyone who has been asked to make peace with a God who looks far too much like the man who hurt them. The Failure of the Father God is not just a personal poem—it’s a refusal.💚
I Feel It in My Bones
Some pain never leaves. It wakes with you, walks with you, weaves itself into the shape of your life until it’s impossible to remember what it felt like to live without it. This poem is a reckoning with that kind of pain—a body turned battlefield, a lifelong ache mistaken for strength. It speaks to the sorrow of feeling old before your time, of wondering if your illness is somehow an echo of your own self-loathing. It’s as much as I’m willing to say about it. Because in the end, worse things have happened to better people—and I won’t mourn myself for something so small in the grandness of all I still have to be grateful for.💚
You Told Me Who You Were
Sometimes, people don’t just tell you who they are—they show you, again and again, in ways that leave marks you try to ignore. This poem is about what it means to keep going back. To keep hoping. To keep rewriting cruelty as complexity, because the truth feels too painful to hold. It’s an indictment—not just of the person who kept causing harm, but of the part of ourselves that kept making room for it. This is what it sounds like to finally believe what you were shown all along.💚
The Violins Are Playing
Some endings don’t come with fireworks or final fights—they arrive quietly, like a bow drawn across the strings. This poem is a farewell to something that has lingered too long, to a connection stretched thin by hurt, by taking, by silence. It’s about the painful clarity that comes when you finally see someone for who they are—and the quiet strength it takes to walk away anyway. It’s not rage. It’s not revenge. It’s the mournful music of letting go.💚
Poetry by Britt Wolfe
I publish a new poem every single morning. Or mourning. Depends on the emotional forecast. Some are tender. Some are rage in a nice outfit. All of them are my attempt to make sense of the human experience using metaphors, emotionally charged line breaks, and questionable coping mechanisms.
Let me be clear: these poems are fiction. Or feelings. Or both. Sometimes they’re exaggerated. Sometimes they’re the emotional equivalent of screaming into a throw pillow. Sometimes they’re just a vibe that got out of hand. They are not confessions. They are not journal entries. They are not cry-for-help-coded-messages. (I have actual coping strategies. And group chats.)
Poetry, for me, isn’t about answers. It’s about shouting into the abyss—but rhythmically. Some pieces will whisper, “Hey… you okay?” Others will show up uninvited, grab you by the collar, and scream, “SAME.” They’re moody, messy, and occasionally helpful—kind of like me.
You’ll find themes running through them like recurring nightmares or that one playlist you swear you’ve moved on from. Love. Grief. Identity. Joy. Ruin. It’s all here, jostling for attention like emotionally unstable toddlers on a sugar high.
Think of these poems as an ongoing conversation—one I started, overshared during, and have now awkwardly walked away from. Good luck with that.
There’s a line in Alice in Wonderland where the Mad Hatter tells Alice she’s lost her muchness. I think about that a lot—how the world teaches us to tone ourselves down until we disappear into something more digestible. The Graveyard of Muchness was born from that quiet grief, from the realisation that most of us have buried our own brilliance just to be seen as reasonable. It’s about walking through the cemetery of all we’ve abandoned—our wonder, our defiance, our wild, luminous selves—and daring to listen for the laughter still echoing beneath the soil.💚