I lay in my bed covered in blankets.

I feel at home wrapped in them.

I feel protected by their warm fibers tickling my cold skin.

I feel the hug of their warm, welcoming arms wrapping around my body.

The pillows act as safe havens for me.

They catch me when I fall and are punching bags when needed.

They soak up my tears when I cry.

They don't deserve the maltreatment, but they take it anyway.

They take my abuse because at the end of the day, I love them.

I need the pillows to act as a part of my home.

I thrive off of the pillows and blankets to give me life when I'm lifeless, hope when I'm hopeless.

They rejuvenate my energies, changing their color from a dark grey to a bright fuchsia.

My senses stimulated by the everlasting hug of the blankets, I sleep soundly and peacefully.

All because of a couple of pillows and blankets.

Though others may see them as just that, I see my pillows and blankets as much, much more.

They seem to me like a band of people who can't wait for me to fall into their arms when I get home.

They are a fan club.

Always lifting my spirits when I need it the most.

I love my pillows and my blankets, and I know they love me, too.