With infinite tenderness, you place yourself across the path of my danger, stopping the hurtling train. You are my superhero.
The whispers start. “She can’t exist on her own.” “Dependency”. Even “Stockholm Syndrome.”
People can be cruel. “Don’t listen,” you say.
I go out less and less, avoiding the voices and the stares.
You make me a nest, and my legs wither. My chest inflates only shallowly now.
Too late I realise what you are.