A really pretty girl,
no words needed,
just a glance,
and the world tips off its axis.
See her with him,
and suddenly he is the villain.
Not her fault, not his,
but yours—
twisting, contorting,
inventing a crime
where none exists.
Something primal brews,
petty and direct,
like a shot to the chest
you fire at yourself.
What did he do
to deserve her light?
What did you not do
to stay in the dark?
It is the theatre of the absurd,
a circus of jealousy,
where the only act
is turning strangers
into adversaries,
turning her beauty
into a battleground
that never asked for war.
It has to be petty,
no room for anything noble here.
It is direct,
a mirror held too close
to the face of your pride.
Blame him.
Blame her.
Blame yourself—
it does not matter,
because no one wins
when the heart is
at war
with its own longing.
