It’s not enough that you think you love me. I should also feel loved. I don’t. People move on and leave me. I am a convenient, safe way to dream. They retreat into me to lick their wounds, hide from the world while they plan their escape. And then they are gone and I am still here, left with the scraps and mess they are free to walk away from. They never look back to see if I’m ok. They are just gone.