High-five

I’m in love with you— Right?  No.  I am not.
How could I? After you treated me like an Arab girl in a medieval, historic plot.

Still, I cared a lot—holding  a memory like a red-heart helium shaped balloon.

The way you’ve settled to treat people,  has drowned the respect of your loyal, oversized-hearted friend.

I hope you  find someone to high-five you to that [I’d pathetically offer mine if  fingers weren’t so worn out].

Shame on me, for letting you come back. For thinking you’d run on a different track. For believing your stories of why you treated me so poorly. You’re just the same. The thought  you could ever change, dies….like my heart died when you called me a whore—for no reason, it was like you were bored, and needed a campaign to game in.

If I see you, I’ll high-five you in the sky— for what you taught me with your treason:

“People can’t change  until  willing  to become real,
reach  roots  towards  sun,
hurt—bloom.”

Finally, I accept you— stale as you are.  I like you best this way—  in my heart you will remain,
the villain in my fairytale, the black hearted monster  spitting out venom trying to snap my prideful spine.

And what is left?
What now is our common ground?

Our wicked pens. The way we both bleed red  [at least I hope you do….the way your heart beats black now, I’m not so sure].

To you it was fun, power and games. But to me, it was pain. And the funny part? You really didn’t care at all. And the funniest part?  I pretended you did.  Jokes on me.  Shame on me.

Shame on me  for replying, “i always loved you too“. When I knew the truth…

And this has nothing to do with love, like, or crushes. This is about respect, loyalty, honor. Each of which you tried to strip me of over and over.  How dare you?  How could you?  Who are you?

To say goodbye now, seems to common, too easy, too familiar. So I’ll say the only words you’ll ever understand… ‘Who is John Galt baby?’ I’ll say it again, in case you weren’t listening, ‘WHO IS JOHN GALT?’

He is the man inside  me,  the dreamer you couldn’t catch. He is the soul within my pen, the passion in my body, the flip in my middle finger that accidentally slips up when I see you. The fire in my writing, the pissed off girl inside  when I think that any man could treat a woman so disrespectfully, so pathetically, so cowardly. He is the indifference I feel, after these words transport from my screen,  to your eyes,  through your brain from my spine,  with one flip of my wrist,  one touch of a button…falling down into that heart you have tamed.

So let’s high-five baby, in the sky baby, let’s bleed bright red baby, if it’s in you baby, let’s let loose our pens of wicked magic, write about me baby, call me  your cheap names while laughing.
You play so hard [I hand you every card], yet  I  always  win. Isn’t that funny?

[Hush pretty baby, let science be quiet. ‘Lullaby  and  good  times,  lullaby  and  good times’, sing it with me, as fresh blood pumps through your stale mind, filling each cell with loyalty, respect, honor. Shift to the tempo of this  brand new beat, rhyme with your spine, truth, heart and mind. ‘Lullaby  and  good times, lullaby   and  good times’, go to sleep now pretty baby, hush your minds nonstop ticks of  time, pick up each sharp word i wrote that fell from brain,  puncturing your heart,  forget what I thought…  and DREAM].

High-five me in the sky,  one last time— pretend  you  cared,  i’ll  pretend  I  didn’t.

You never loved me— Right?

Who is John Galt.