Passwords

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.