My Vein.

I’m not the only one screaming.

She can’t run fast enough to out run the traps set for him to make his escape. Even to save him, the knife’s still at his wrist, and the poison still on his lips.

With my face pressed against the glass, I whisper words she can’t hear. “Let him go before you ruin yourself.”

But isn’t that what we all say to each other?

“Beware: Love’s a bloody war. And your soldiers are wimps.”

And I can’t even remember if I’m screaming for myself, or him. I see him. But I can’t see him.

The heart’s a mystery. The mind is only half-revealed. And liars are good at what they do.

Yet, he still has my pumping vein wrapped around his finger.

If he yanks, I’ll bleed. If he lets go, I’ll die.

He looks me in the eye and his ask the question, “Is this a risk worth taking?”

I don’t know. “Are you a risk worth taking?”

He twists my vein around his finger, tighter.

We’re about to find out.