If jealousy is a disease
Then I am sick.

My lips, chapped and bloodied,
My brain heavy and hardened,
Constantly filled with the worries
Of someone else’s wants.

The need to progressively feel
Like my doings
Are somehow
Better than yours,
Has shallowed my cheeks
And paled my skin.

My bones are brittled
With the comparison
Of somebody else’s capacity for excellence.