Don’t call me that. You have no right to call me by my name, much less to call me baby, sweetheart or darling. You have no right to speak to me so familiarly like nothing ever happened between us, like the words we spoke had never been uttered.

Don’t look at me. You have no right to let your eyes rest anywhere upon my body, and yet you dare to look me in the eyes and try to see into me, the way you once used to be able to see into my soul.

Don’t touch me. Oh, god, please don’t touch me. The feel of your fingertips on my skin burns like fire, no tingle of the once held desire, but in sheer rejection of emotions and energy that is flowing through you to me.

When I say it’s over, I mean I’m done, and that is time to move forward. I can’t take you with me.

I won’t take you with me.

So please don’t call me that. Don’t look at me. Don’t touch me.

Just walk away.

Just go.