They do not know my name, have never met me. Others don’t know I exist. I am his secret. I get jealous of how they possess his attention—even if it was for a short while—because it meant he’d rather not give me any.
But I possess him when he’s in my bed. His eyes, his mouth, his hands, all mine. For those moments. Yours, he says, when he sees the thirst in my eyes. I engulf him with my love, my desire, my hatred, my pain. I whisper the name only I have for him and he responds.
Mine. Secretly mine.