It was hidden
for so long
that I didn't even know what it sounded like anymore.
It was a word,
a wound,
a shape that had no shape
but that still squeezed
from within.
And I let it go.
A little more each day.
Hidden among gestures,
behind smiles that knew how to hide.
As if silence were a piece of furniture
in which to store what bothers you.
But the body knows.
The soul, or whatever that is,
also knows.
And carries it.
And grows tired.
Until one day
I don't know why that day
I said it.
I felt like the air was air again.
That my chest was no longer a cage.
That the secret
was no longer a secret,
And that I,
Finally,
was mine again.
Not everything was fixed.
But inside,
Where there was once a knot,
Now there's space.
And having nothing hidden
is a rare form of freedom.
And that,
after so much weight,
is more than enough. I'm free.