So I've finally given you a name. And now I'm showing you the door. It's time to move on. I'm tired of our late night love affairs and steamy trysts. Because the thing is, I always wake up the next morning feeling worse for the wear. Sore and tired and irritable and moody and bloated and fussy and lethargic and apathetic. Apathetic. That's the worst. You create a overriding sense of stasis in my life. And I hate that. And I hate you for that.
Not that long ago I was telling Tom about our relationship and I said I didn't hate you--I just felt sorry for you. Well, we're past that point. You have manipulated me and I've let you. You played hide-and-seek with my happiness and I willingly joined in. I stayed inside countless nights because you wanted me to. You made me flaky and untrustworthy. You made me loathe myself. So forgiveness is no longer an option. It's just not the point. You must go. We've taken breaks before, but they've never lasted. Until now. I'm tired. You've stayed too long and you're no longer of use to me.
So tomorrow morning when I wake up I expect you to be gone. Packed up and moved out. Don't you dare leave a pare of shoes behind--keeping that proverbial foot in the door. I will get out of bed and you're side will be empty. I will brush my teeth, take a shower, put lotion on my face, stretch and prepare for the day. And with each step I take, the bruises of your grasping little fingers will fade from my arm and I will find a normalcy that is all my own.
So goodbye my sometime lover. Move on. I may feel the shadow of your breath on my neck at times, but I will never again be seduced by empty kisses and even emptier promises.