Keeper of Secrets

 by Adena M’lynn

She is the keeper of secrets—

not the sweet kind tucked in birthday cards

or whispered before kisses,

but the kind with teeth.

The kind that sleep under floorboards,

rattle the pipes,

and fog the mirrors

when she tries to see herself clearly.

These are the secrets

that could shatter

a church,

a family name,

a politician’s smile.

The kind shared only

when someone’s zipper

is down

and their conscience

lower.

The kind exchanged like blackmail

with a handshake

that smells like bleach and guilt.

She didn’t ask for them—

they were shoved

into her silence

like a dirty rag

in the mouth of a girl

told to smile.

These secrets distort her mind,

twist the compass of right and wrong

into a roulette wheel—

spin it,

pull the trigger,

pray the truth doesn’t kill

what little peace she’s gathered

like pennies from the floor.

Some days she forgets

what was real

and what was survival.

Some nights she watches the ceiling

crack under the pressure

of all the names

she’ll never speak.

What would the world look like

if she opened her mouth?

If her truth

wasn’t seen as a weapon

but a wildfire

burning down illusions

that were built

on her silence?

Who would run?

Who would fall?

Who would finally say,

“I believe you,”

and mean it

with their hands

not just their hashtags?

She is the keeper of secrets.

But even vaults have hinges.

Even steel bends

when it’s tired enough.

And one day,

when the weight

is too much to carry,

she will speak.

Not for revenge.

Not for ruin.

But for the girl

still suffocating

under truths

that never belonged to her

in the first place.