A secret is sometimes a prima-donna.
It revels in its understated performance: it doesn’t find power in volume. Rather, it finds its power in the silence.
ex.) In middle school, where you would lean into your friend’s ear and tell them who you had a crush on with a quietness that was almost sacred. It was fun.
A secret is sometimes a clumsily stitched suture.
The tenderness of which is still so deep and persistent; it is obvious that it’s visible, but pride convinces the secret it’s healed and hidden.
ex.) You don’t tell anyone you liked girls in high school, but you wrote poetry about your best friend every year for the literary magazine with your initials. It was a secret that couldn’t commit to being one, and would rather amputate parts of its own name for shame of being exposed as gay.
A secret is sometimes a fire.
It begins, gentle in an apprehensive and shy way, as it always does. Then it kills everything.
ex.) A parent’s love for their child is as expansive and boundless as the night sky. But there is always a caveat: the Earth must be facing away from the sun, and the daughter must always be perfect in the light. It is an unspoken contract. When lightning strikes, the sky of love is cleaved. There are conditions, provisions, warnings and limitations to love: “What will they say, anak? What will they think of us?”
A secret is sometimes speaking upon the ashes—to make the dust sing color.
ex.) When the sky collapses, and there is nothing left to burn, the dust will settle, and give birth to children that will inherit a gentler world where one face is enough.