The Hunted. 

He came to me to prove a point. That his friends weren’t saying the right shit, or doing enough. It was a project, a challenge, a test. To confirm that it doesn’t take much. Talking a good game and saying all that shit he thought I wanted to hear. Assuming  cool was good enough, assuming his acquitance with Cindy was all he needed. After all, impressing a girl wasn’t so hard for him. Before.

But then, what was the fuck boy’s brilliant mind not telling him? Why did he disregard all his friend’s effort? But then, why think he even thought about it. It was probably a Sunday afternoon high that inspired the move.  “Yo! Yo! I’m gonna show you fuckers how it’s done!” I bet he said  and they laughed it off, because “bitch crazy” as they’d come to conclude.

So he came. Made nice. Made all the wrong moves I’d come to associate with every fuck boy. Tagged me in random pictures of  his people I didn’t care to know, lectured me about having a life and how life is too short. Ha ha…  Yeah, tell me something I don’t already know!  Invited me to shit parties and puff offs. Nuh, not that kind of girl.

It was time to change tactic. Be a sucker. Come through just to hang out, open up to me (for that I appreciate) call just to check if I’m doing okay and all that shit guys do to get laid. He didn’t think he was. Let’s not hold that against him. Proving a point at this point might have been pinned. Or so thought.

Sorry, gotta go. Continue later

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