sometimes I feel an envy flood into my veins,
making its way down my arteries and capillaries,
the green rushes from the tips of my hair down to the soles of my feet
sometimes poison dances in my throat when I think of him
sound asleep, basking in the quiet of the night
waking in the warmth of the morning sun
while I am doing anything but, being eaten alive
by an itch that I can't scratch, choking for air that will never come
consumed by a longing that will never be returned
waiting for an existence that will never be
YOU ARE READING
the revisionist
PoetryA revisionist changes history, but I am merely telling my story how it happened to me -- what a travesty that it makes me the revisionist.
