I lie next to you and sob myself to sleep every night. You never hear me. I don’t remember any more how long I’ve been crying. Days? Months? Years? This isn’t the life you promised me. You’re always traveling — just business, you say — while I haunt the mausoleum that was our home.

Even when you are here, I’m still a ghost. I’m nothing more than an unwelcome presence that distracts you from your expense reports, your e-mails, and flurry of neverending paperwork and phone calls. We haven’t held a real conversation in months. I quit trying.

I’m not your wife anymore, your job is.

I can’t believe you have the nerve to bitch about my drinking. I need my wine. I need the relief it brings, the soothing comfort that washes away the pain your neglect causes me. So what if I act obnoxious sometimes? Don’t you ask yourself why I scream? Why I pout? Don’t you ever think that maybe you’re the reason I spend long hours drinking in the bedroom wallowing in my own misery?

Do you even remember anymore why you loved me?

You haven’t said a kind word to me in months. Nothing I do is ever good enough. My goals are stupid to you. My suggestions are meaningless. You tell me I have no ambition, but my ambition was a family. I waited for you my whole life, found you, and cried with joy that you loved me back. We had dreams then. But you stole them away from me without even asking first. You tell me we no longer want the same things out of life, but all I ever wanted was you. All you want is money.

Even now, as you lie there silent, I don’t feel what I used to. You’re a stranger to me. The slight crook in your nose, the puffy cheeks, the rugged, masculine face I adored doesn’t seem familiar anymore. I’m looking at a waxen dummy of the man I used to love.

I’m torn between leaving and staying.

And I have nightmares now. Four nights ago, I dreamt I handcuffed you to the bed. I wanted to keep you there so that you’d have to face me, face what you’ve done to my life. I wanted you to deal with this monstrous, miserable bitch you’ve created.

For days, I’ve dreamed of nothing but killing you. I hover over you and thrust a butcher knife again and again and again into your chest as blood splatters all over me. I wake up screaming. Tears run down my face. You don’t even stir. You never acknowledge my pain. No matter how much I scream, or cry, or beat you, you won’t even turn your head to look at me.

So, I’ve finally decided to get out of bed and leave. I won’t be this ignored, damaged thing any longer. I’m moving on with my life.

It’s time.

You were dead to me long before I killed you.