My poor deer,
Always chasing after butterflies.
I watch you hop and roll,
As the stream flows.
Such a cute delicacy,
My dear deer.

I look at you
Through the bushes near the stream.
You startle, look for me,
But you will never see,
As I would ever let it be.

My mouth will water
While I circle around you.
You will look for the predator—
But none will be,
And none is.

You will be alert and always feel me.
My gums will itch,
And I will feel happy.
You see, this gives me joy—
Seeing you squirm.
I will daydream about my jaw locking on your flesh—
Blood dyeing my molars akin to ripe pomegranate—
While you will get used to my presence.

This will be our new routine,
Hence full midnights blanket your fear
And my anticipation.

Even at the end,
When we realize ourselves,
Our movements mimicking
And heartbeats polarize,
I will give you a filthy, sick smile.
You will come to realize:
For you, it is your being.
But for me—
For the predator—
Frankly, it is never about the catch,
But the hunt.