Sofia Aronovsky Poet Free verse

Written in My Hand

Written in My Hand 
 
Grief is loud.

It cries until your body hurts.
It screams into empty rooms.
It asks why
until the word means nothing.

It makes you angry
at people who are still here.

It makes you miss things
you thought you hated.

But grief is quiet too.

Sometimes it sits beside you
while you laugh.

Sometimes you have a good day
and feel guilty for having one.

Sometimes you forget.

And then you remember.

And somehow,
remembering hurts worse
than never forgetting at all.

Grief is a ghostwriter.

It writes things inside you
that you don't remember asking it to write.

It changes the way you remember before.
It changes the way you imagine after.

It makes absence feel like a presence.

And after a while,
you stop asking grief to leave.

You make room for it.

Maybe because losing it
would mean losing one more thing.

So it stays.

Quiet enough that no one else hears it.
Loud enough that you always do.

And somewhere along the way,
it learns to write in your hand.

Until one day you read yourself back
and cannot tell
where grief ends
and you begin.

— Sofia Aronovsky

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Alison A Smith October 8, 2026 at 9:05 PM The spare free verse and shifting line lengths beautifully echo grief’s movement between outcry and quiet companionship. The ghostwriter metaphor gives the poem a compelling thread, culminating in an intimate ending where loss and identity become almost indistinguishable.