I am certain that my lack of competition irritates you. I yield. I refuse to fight. I am a damp sheet hanging on the line and the speed and ferocity of your attacks have often backfired, causing you harm. You are punching at ghosts. I am insubstantial. You could have taken everything from me and I would have shrugged and walked away.
I remember, as a small child, you would steal a toy and cut its mane, its hair, its fingers off at the knuckle. I would hold my tears until my head ached. I would shrug, dry-eyed as if I never cared about the toy in the first place. Sometimes I would comfort the severed plastic stumps later, smothering the damaged hand with kisses. "You know I love you. You know I will always love you." I would sacrifice all that I cared for in an effort against competition.