I drove up to the shady-looking man, the man that filled me with hope and promise. I scratched my face, opening another one of the many wounds I’ve gained over the years from the predator.

The predator took my looks, my husband, my job, and my money. But I keep having to come back for more. For the predator is glorious and beautiful in every way. It makes me happy and carefree.

But at the same time, not. The predator makes me grounge for money, steal my way to just get a glance at it. It makes me itch all over and makes me imagine things that aren’t real, and for that I hate the predator all the same.

The man places a small baggie in my hand that housed the predator, but his other hand is open wide, waiting for money.

I dig through my pockets to find anything at all.

Nothing.

I sigh, for the predator has led me to win him in other manners.

I pull off my skirt, and just wait impatiently for the predator.

I hate you, sweet Predator.