Regurgitated images of you
Smiling at her,
(the way you smile at me)
Staring at her;
(the way you used to stare at me)
My stomach is queasy; my soul aches.

The heated fingertips of envy and
Anguish gently brush the hair
From my eyes, leaving the sensation
That I'm on fire. I am on fire;  my
Golden heart, now molten metal, heats
Every inch of this vessel; I am turning to ash.

Second guessing is something you've always
Beem good at, and you swore to
Never use it in me. But sitting across the room
From you, watching you watch her  made
It clear. I was never any good at
Getting first place; second best is home to me.

Poisoning rage is swimming in my
Veins;  desolation echoes throughout the
Cracks in my lungs and chest. Melancholy
Seeps into my soul like the first rain of
Spring. This barren landscape is engulfed by
The malignity. What am I supposed to do?

Every time you touch me, I wonder
If you wish you were touching her.
When you press your lips to my neck, I
Wonder if you're trying to imagine her scent.
When you're mumbling sweetly in your Dreams, I question if you're dreaming of her.

Hearts are supposed to be strong, and
My soul is supposed to stand on its own,
But Jesus Christ, I'm crumbling.
How can I get these foul images out of
My over active brain?  How can I accept
That I'm only going to finish in second place?