Can u feel the weight...secrets holds

A secret is not a thing. It is a grave you carry beneath your ribs. It grows in the dark, feeding on silence, rooting itself through bone and blood until even your shadow looks burdened. By daylight, it wears your face. It laughs when you laugh, speaks when you speak, pretends to belong among ordinary moments. But at night— at night it wakes. It prowls the corridors of your mind, dragging chains forged from every word you swallowed, every truth you buried, every cry you taught yourself not to make. A secret has its own gravity. It pulls joy from your hands. It bends memories out of shape. It turns mirrors into interrogations and sleep into a battlefield. You begin to measure your life in near confessions. The trembling breath. The almost spoken sentence. The moment your heart beats against its cage begging to be heard. Yet still you carry it. Like a coffin no one else can see. Like a storm stitched shut inside your skin. And the cruelest thing is this: The secret does not hurt because it is hidden. It hurts because every day you must choose between the pain of keeping it and the terror of setting it free. So it remains... a black hole in the center of your being, swallowing light, swallowing peace, swallowing the person you were before the silence became heavier than the truth.