Envy rips away at my skin,
until my spine protrudes through my clothes,
and my collarbone shows.
Envy makes my stomach ache,
until I can't seem to have any control,
and suddenly I have my head in a porcelain bowl.
Envy makes my eyes clog up with tears,
until all I can feel is the burn from my hands helplessly wiping at my cheeks,
and I long for somebody else to wipe the streaks.
Envy makes me want to scream,
until my throat is raw,
and I'm scratching at my jaw.
Envy drags me to the throne of Sin,
until I get on my hands and knees,
and I'm asking God to rid me of this disease and stop ignoring my pleas.
I envy.
I envy.
I hopelessly envy.
YOU ARE READING
Eunoia
PoezjaBehind every poem is a story too afraid to be told bluntly. . . . I intend to write to make you feel.
