I wrote the following and wanted to share. Ironically, It's written about not sharing.
The Quiet Companion.
For decades I have kept him
in the hush behind my ribs—
a mild flame, harmless as dusk,
vanilla to the world’s spiced tongue.
Yet he weighs like iron in the dark.
I choose the daylight faces,
the safe and spoken loves,
and lead him down the narrow stair
each quiet night.
A latch clicks. A door sighs open.
For one brief hour he rises,
stretches bones long folded,
breathes the open air of what I crave
gentle chains of silk and wonder,
fantasies soft enough to bruise no one
but heavy enough to bruise me.
Then I coax him back,
close the wood, turn the key,
and walk among the others
as if I had never let him out at all.
I am tired of being his only witness.
I want a second pair of eyes
that do not flinch or laugh or look away
eyes that lean in, curious and warm,
and ask his name.
I want to hear the click of another door,
to watch their hidden self step forward,
stretch, and marvel that mine is beautiful.
Two quiet companions,
no longer solitary,
meeting in the space between secrets
where shame cannot follow.
Let him be known.
Let me be known.
Not loud, not extreme
only real, only seen,
only finally allowed
to breathe in company.