It’s over. 
I’m done. 
I’m moving out. 

I will admit, 
there were things I enjoyed about our relationship:
punching you in the gut
on the regular;
fucking with your emotions 
whenever I felt like it; 
making you bleed
routinely and excessively;
turning your hips 
into my breeding ground…. 
And how about that boob job I got you?
<chuckle>
Maybe I got a little carried away 
with the fat and filler.
I like to keep women
soft, 
weak, 
and uncomfortable.

And really, 
how can you complain?
I gave you the kids you wanted.
You should be thankful.

But now I’m bored.
You’re getting old.
Both literally
And figuratively. 
Just look at yourself. 
Have you noticed 
the gray at your thinning hairline?
the extra cellulite on your thighs?
the thickness around your middle?
I sure have.
You’ve become an 
embarrassment to me.

So, I’m moving out. 
Gonna pack up my shit
and get outta here. 

Maybe that sounds like a relief?
but when I leave,
you won’t know 
what THE FUCK hit you.

You think I made you miserable when I lived here?
Just wait until I’m gone.
I have a special harassment plan.
Hint:
It’s hot, like hell, but still on earth. 
PERFECTION!
I almost wish I could stick around
to watch you *try* to cope. 
<snort>

But I won’t. 
I’ll be too busy 
focusing my attention on other, 
younger females. 
I’ve had my eye on
little Bella down the street. 
She’s turning 11 next week. 
Think I’ll show up for her birthday party! 
Surprise!!! 
I like to make dramatic entrances.
And exits. 
I’m fun that way.

Oh, and P.S. 
if you try to replace me, 
you could end up in the hospital 
with your boobs chopped off
fighting for your life. 
Or maybe even dead. 
Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. 

It’s been swell. 
Buh-Bye!

About the author:

Julie Meyer Taylor is an artist, writer, and former social worker. She lives in Arizona with her husband and three teen boys. Her work has been previous published in Huff Post, Literary Mama, and CBE international. @jloraye, https://claytraits.etsy.com/