Another day, another stranger, another woman inside the house we share. It's no longer a surprise, just a fact, a part of my daily life. She's just like the others, gathering up her skimpy, rumpled chooses and bolting out the door. If she were polite, she would murmur a brisk apology before leaving.

I remember the first time something like this had happened. It had been such a shock, such a big deal back then. I had just returned home from a seven hour day of work to see you arms around her, touching her. I just left, my head hurting, my heart bleeding, but my eyes dry.

I should have known something was off when I realized nothing was falling from my eyes. No painful, pitiful tears.

When I returned, you captured me in your arms, warming my cold, frail body and stitching up my heart. And I forgave you when you begged for forgiveness, promising it was just a mistake. That was the very first time. Just the first.

But I always forgave you, like a fool. No, I was blindly in love. Because I was. Back then, I was so mindlessly and madly in love with you. I felt like I needed you, needed your love, needed your attention. And being the twisted freak you were, you encouraged it. You made me think I needed this too, this addiction, this harmful drug that I thought was love.

Somehow, I was deluded into the illusion that I really did need you, that I loved you. Now that I can see the truth, I feel sick the the core to think I ever thought like that. Because I was just a plaything for you. You never truly loved me, did you? 

Even though at the beginning you would tell me I was beautiful while my hair, now, you would probably shrug and turn to the TV to watch whatever hot show was on.

You used to buy me candy flowers every week, and take me out to the amusement park every month. Our love was so cheesy, so corny, too good to be true. Because it was, it wasbe true. but so fake. Looking back now, I realize that it wasn't real. Every time you showed up, you would be later than the last, maybe your hair rumpled or your cheek adorned with a light, smudged, pink stain. But I would overlook that because I would fool my brain into believing that what my heart felt was worth more than what reality showed. 

I would say I hate you, that you're lower than scum, and you deserve to rot in hell for eternity. And I wouldn't be wrong, really. Anything like that would be more than what you deserve.

But my mother taught me better than that.

So this one last time, let me leave in peace, and nobody will get hurt.

Even someone like me can break.

"Babe, what are you doing?" Your voice resounds, rumbling as if the situation is somehow humorous.

"Packing.." I don't even spare you a glance.

"Hmm? For a... Trip, maybe? How long?" Your expression turns curious.

"Forever, if possible. We're over." 

"WHAT? Why? You can't leave me!" All of a sudden, your cool demeanor breaks down. "I love you!" As if you really mean it. Your face is contorted in an expression of anger and despair, and it all seems so comical now.

This is very first time, and it'll be the last as well. It just feels so stupid, superficial, and empty. I can't believe the nerve you have, to say that to me. The very first time you say those words is when I'm leaving? What a joke. You're a joke. We were a joke. And I feel like laughing in your face when you actually say it.

So that's what I do. I laugh as I walk out the door, with not even a glance back.

"Sorry, I'm allergic to bull."