Hyphenated
The million-to-one longshot -
I know this unlikely victory
isn’t so sweet when the race is fixed
and everyone got paid on the side
for being in on the trick
while I just ran and ran and ran.
Ran until every muscle ached
and could barely breathe,
and you threw me a cup of water
that turned out to be poisoned.
“I didn’t know,” you said,
but you didn’t sip it, either.
Gathering my roses at the finish line,
I searched the crowd of strangers
for someone to share my victory –
little did I know you were at the payout booth
collecting your winnings
from the cruel but well-executed scam.
I’m the hyphen in your used-to-be,
and she’s the substance in your dialogue -
reading between the lines,
I still find her there, laughing,
as I struggle to comprehend
the subtext of your smile.
Your half-truths and vague love songs
dominate my existence -
I’ll sing along with a painted look
of adoration in my eyes,
because I finally figured out
how to play your game, too.
“I’ll go with it,” she said
winking away the time I spent
trying to forget that I knew it all
and closed my eyes, preferring the dream.
I’m awake now, thief,
and I want it all back.
“Million-to-one shot, babe -
million-to-one.”
I’ll take those odds…
but the next time,
believe me, I’ll know better
than to run so fast.
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