i wear my grief like a second skin

it clings tighter than love ever could

Anguish, August Friedrich Albrecht Schenck

Grief has a way of swallowing the light, of wrapping itself around the bones, a shadow that thickens, nestles beneath the skin, and refuses to leave. Love may come soft, may kiss the surface, but grief—grief burrows deep, knows the veins like an old friend, a parasite, and it clings, relentless. I wear it now, threadbare and familiar, tighter than any lover’s touch, heavier than memory, a coat I cannot take off even when the sun burns through. It does not soften like love. It presses in, suffocating, until you wonder if you will ever remember what it felt like to breathe freely and becomes a second self, more intimate, more permanent, as if it had always been there, lying in wait.

There are days when it settles quietly, resting just beneath the surface, and others when it feels like it is clawing at my chest. The weight of it starts there, right in the hollow where my breath should be steady, pressing into my chest until the air feels thin. It is the weight of something promised that never came. Something that was supposed to last forever but disappeared too soon, leaving only the echo of what could have been.

The space they left behind—it settles into me whenever I hear certain words or when someone else shares what I can never have. The memories flicker like old film, scenes tinged with a softness that only deepens the void. It is in the everyday, too—the smell of brewed coffee, the distant sound of laughter in the car—that the ache surfaces, a gentle reminder that everything is tinged with what is no longer. These are the moments others take for granted, the ones where someone is meant to stand by you, watching as things change, as life moves forward. But that space remains empty. It is a silence that presses deeper, like something that was taken away before its time.

Grief lives in my shoulders, too. It pulls them down, a weight that has been with me for years and will likely be with me for many more. There is something about carrying this that shapes you, makes you hold everything close, just under the surface, hidden from everyone else. Letting it slip out feels too vulnerable, too risky, like exposing the one thing that still holds me together. I have become protective of it, as if letting anyone see it might take it away from me. And without it, I would not know who I am anymore.

There was a moment when I stopped talking about it, when I decided that this would stay between me and the silence. It was easier that way, easier to let it become something I did not have to share. That is when it began to feel like a second skin—something I did not wear, but something that wore me. The more I held it close, the more it fused to me, until I could not tell where it ended and I began. I grew attached to it, in a way that is hard to explain, like it was all I had left. It is strange how something so painful can become so familiar, but you hold onto it because it is the only thing that stays when everything else leaves.

At night, when the world grows still, it all swells like a tide, pulling at my thoughts. I sit in the dark, wrapped in the quiet, and feel it seep into every pore, filling the spaces where hope once resided. It is a persistent presence, always lingering, an uninvited guest at the table of my heart. Questions swirl in the quiet, and I cannot help but wonder what could have been different, if this weight will ever lift, if I will ever shed this second skin. Yet, there is a strange kind of comfort, even though I know I will never have the answers. It is almost like a habit, these questions with no answers, like holding onto the unknown makes it easier to bear.

I am both the bearer and the burden, the keeper of a grief that shapes me. There is something heavier in the way I move, as if my body is being pulled forward, while something else holds me back. I see it in the mirror—a version of myself that is older, worn down by the weight of things unsaid and undone. I tell others to keep going, to stay strong, but inside, I am struggling to take my own advice. I have grown accustomed to pretending that everything is fine, while knowing it is far from it.

It clings to me, tighter than love ever could. It is invisible, stitched into my skin, but it is always there. It presses against every joyful moment, every time I try to feel something good, reminding me of the void underneath. No matter how much love or happiness touches my life, there is always that quiet emptiness lingering just below the surface, reminding me of what is missing. I have tried to let it go, but the truth is, I do not know how. It is the only thing that keeps certain memories close, the only way to feel connected to what is no longer here.

This distance—it is something that grows between me and everyone else. There is a gap that no one can cross, a space they cannot reach because they have not felt what I have. It is not something that can be explained or shared. I have learned to pretend that everything is normal, but there is always a part of me that is held back, unreachable. No matter how many words I use, they cannot understand. So I keep it hidden, pretend it is not there, even when it is all I feel.

And in those fragile moments, I realize there may not be hope or healing. Just the quiet acceptance that this is what remains.