If Love Was a Crime

He’s always watching.

I feel his eyes bearing into my secrets. The expression emitting from his pores: He is suspicious of me. I’m the person of interest. Each time is just a slight glance, a split second glimpse taking a piece of me to investigate. My every move is under scrutiny. He barely speaks. Barely interacts. But. Always. Watching. ME.

I feel- I am exposed. Strapped to an examination table. Secrets written in silver pouring out of my skin under his watchful care. He wants me to think I’m crazy, but I’m not. I know what I know. He’s subtle. Handsomely subtle. I’m too alarmed to confront. Too intrigued by his inquiry. Maybe even flattered. For once, I am the suspect. Sometimes I think he knows, but won’t say anything. Every time my presence is made, his silence is donned. I don’t know what this is, unless someone has whispered my name into the swirls of his ear. Unless a certain someone has hired him to tail me.

But there’s something they don’t know.

I’m a black widow with many webs, intricately designed to thwart wanderers like you. My poison injected into your veins will dry out your ambition.

So go ahead Detective Comics, try and catch me.