Predator

Rachel Jones

Remember the time you were in that truck?
No, not that time, that other one—
you were twelve and
with your little sister and that drunk guy.
What was his name?  Oh, right—Blair.
He stared at you
before he turned off the headlights
on that road—West Lilac.  No,
Old River.
He said he was going to buy you
and your sister some clothes,
something your dad never did.
Remember the envelope?
“Pick a bill, any bill…”
and you pulled out a fifty
and later spent it on a tie-died shirt
that you wore for your sixth grade picture.
Remember how everyone loved it?
And you didn’t feel dirty,
Just pretty.
Then your mom’s boyfriend
made Blair go away
and you hated him more than ever.
Until you realized that
getting choked every now and then
was better than getting raped when you’re twelve.