The Secret Keeper

We all carry things that no one sees. Some of us carry stories—others’ stories, whispered confessions, silent tears, half-smiles masking old wounds. We listen, we hold, we keep. But what happens when the secret keeper has secrets of their own?

This poem is for those who’ve ever held someone else’s truth and wondered quietly: Who do I tell mine to?

Secrets.
Skeletons.
Hidden closets.
Behind every closed door, there’s one—
Mine included.

A secret keeper, that’s what I’ve become.
I carry them—
All those whispered truths, all those skeletons.
They say, "I don’t know why I told you,"
"Don’t tell anyone."

They aren’t pretty—but they’re not ugly either.
In my imaginary chest, I store them,
Only to release them quietly to the heavens above.

I am a secret keeper—nothing more, nothing less.
Ears open to the brightest joys, the darkest griefs.
Knowing the quiet thoughts of the heart.
My mouth, the locked doorway
to a chest buried deep within—
never to see the light of day.

Some say it might open.
Some say it won’t.
It’s their choice—to trust me
with the secrets of their hearts.

But who do I trust with mine?
I too have skeletons in my closet.
And I can’t let them out.
Is there anyone out there… for me?