The sight of her
carves my guts out,
hold my esophagus tight
and makes the veins in my wrist dance
to the sound of my jealousy.
For once, I resonate with the
succulents in my room,
the ones I don’t water
but still shine boastfully green.
I feel as if I am swallowing green,
or perhaps, it is accumulated in my
tough, knotted throat,
inching towards the opening of my mouth,
yearning to spill out of me.
When I told you,
‘I would only ever paint you out of horror’,
the colours that I assumed were,
red, purple, orange, black,
for they represent you and me;
little did I know
that I would begin
immortalizing you in green,
a colour just as primary as the rest,
but just as undiscovered as gray and me.
This is the first time I wrote a poem about jealousy for I never thought I was capable of feeling attachment, much less jealousy.
It makes me want to crawl out of my skin right now, I hate it. But I guess the best way for me to accept it is to share it.
So, here is a poem about jealousy. It is about a guy who was more orange than any other colour, but I wrote him in green ink.
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