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.