Jealousy isn't an emotion.
It's a physical pain.
It's the twisting of the dagger, persistently fighting it's way deeper into your core.
The rubbing of the salt into the already excruciating wound.
The way your heart is so broken that you can almost feel the blood dripping and draining every inch of your soul.
The way each breath feels like your last, for just a moment, because you don't know how you could possibly carry on. Or how you could possibly endure another second of this pain.
The sheer chaos in your mind like a whirlwind of terror and panic and just physical sickness.
Paranoia. Disgust. Anger.
The voice in your head will never cease.
"She's better than you."
"She writes more eloquently."
"She dances more gracefully."
"She doesn't even have to try."
"You'll never be her."
And the worst part is how you hate yourself and the envious monster you've become.

Twilight.
Late at night.
Beautiful sight.

She blinks.
Heels in her hand, mascara flakes onto her rosey cheeks.
Swaying,
Secretly praying,
Silently in her mind.
Even more silently in her heart.
Who knows what of?
Who cares?

She thinks.
These are the best days of her life.
At least that's what they told her.
Eighteen,
Singing Springsteen,
Loudly in the streets.
Drunk and disorderly,
Who knows who she'll meet?
And who cares?

My brain must hate me.
What reason, other than that, to explain why I'm constantly tortured by the mental image of him. And her.
Him and her.
Him with her.

Drip, drip, drip
From the bracelets of blood.
Drip, drip, drip
From the salty eye-flood.
Drip, drip, drip
Followed by thud thud thud.
Drip, drip, drip
In the rain and the mud.
Drip, drip, drip
In the mud and the rain.
Drip, drip, drip
Sounds like the loneliest pain.
Drip, drip, drip
All over again.
Drip, drip, drip
Walk but don't trip.
Drip, drip, drip
Go on, just one more sip.
Drip, drip, drip
And then glug, glug, glug
Drip, drip, drip*
Until you're sick, sick, sick.

Memories are personal.

An experience may, at first, appear to have been shared by a number of people:

A concert, a meeting, a party, a date...

But upon closer analysis you realise that no two people have ever really shared an experience, a moment, a time, a memory.

That concert.
Attended by thousands.
But did they notice the short-lived beads of sweat rushing to death as they escape the forehead of the crazed fan beside you?

And that date.
There was two of you there.
But did she see the way you looked at her, besotted, and grinned when she dropped her fork? And the way you pretended not to notice?

No amount of camera roll and no 140 character tweet can do justice to the complexity of the human memory.

Finite,
irreplaceable,
and totally unique.