When her friends stopped visiting,
When her family stopped calling.
When he went inside another woman— and she was still breastfeeding his baby.
When a wild dog kept breaking into the yard, stiff and growling,
but no one came to help.
When the baby started teething.
When the toddler started rebelling.
When she left the magical trees
When she gave the landlord the keys.
She stopped caring.
She started surviving.
She stopped visiting.
She stopped messaging.
She stopped calling.
She stopped loving.
She stopped smiling.
She stopped tasting food.
She left the summer rats
the baby scorpions
the snakes and hungry roadrunners
the lazy people, the angry people
No more parties
No more tagging pictures
No more play dates
No more Mom’s Nights Out
No more bullshit.
You got to pick up every stitch
Oh no, must be the Season of the Bitch.
Hour 7, Prompt 7