I don't want to see you with anybody else.
My toxic trait is that I want to own and be owned. Not in an unhealthy way—
okay, fine. Maybe a little.
Maybe I'll always be a little unhealed, because I can't help the fire that rises in me when another woman drifts into your orbit. I can't help the voice that says, “he's mine, back off, go find your own.” I can't help guarding what's mine like something feral, because I know exactly what it feels like to lose what I love.
But that's only half of it.
I want to be claimed just as badly. I want to feel owned. Not controlled, but held. The kind of owned that finally feels like belonging somewhere. Like a stray that's finally allowed to stop running. There's a particular safety in being held firmly by someone whose warmth never burns the house down.
Part of me still isn't sure I'm allowed to claim you the way I want to. But I can't help it. You found me beaten and bruised and you let me in anyway. And when I bit you, you didn't throw me back out into the cold. You crouched down and held out your hand. That was the moment I understood I'd found home in a person.
And god help anyone who tries to make me a stray again.