# The Body of Secrecy The secrecy arrives like a guest who never announces himself— he enters through the walls, settles in the corners where light grows tired of reaching. I have kept him alive in the small rooms of my ribs, fed him on half-truths and the taste of words I swallowed before they became sound. He has a body now— not transparent, not quite solid— something between what is said and what remains unspoken, like steam that remembers the kettle but forgets to be water again. In the mirror, sometimes I see him blinking behind my eyes, wearing my face like a borrowed coat, warm where it touches, cold at the seams. I have grown accustomed to his weight, the way he settles into my lungs, making each breath a small conspiracy, each silence a room with a locked door and a key I keep forgetting I hold. He does not age, this secret of mine. He does not hunger or tire. He simply waits— patient as dust, faithful as a shadow that knows its shape better than I know mine.