The first secret we learn is a name,
pressed like fingerprints into memory’s skin.
A name we carry, yours or someone else’s,
the syllables rolling familiar on tired keys.
You think no one knows, but everyone does—
how love slips easiest into code,
how a heart spells itself in repetition,
with numbers pinned like a fragile lock.
My father’s name brackets every login,
his laugh keeping the hackers at bay.
Your sister’s name tethers you to safety,
a decade stitched right after, just in case.
We all think we live behind barricades,
spines lined with keys no one can decode.
But love’s a vault we leave ajar,
whispering names we couldn’t keep secret.