There is a poison in my bloodstream.
It does not kill me fast—
it coats the inner walls,
makes the bad things last.
Every time I see you walking tall
and satisfied,
something cold and green and hungry
turns inside.
I tried religion.
I tried the bottle.
I tried the road.
I tried unloading all this venom off my load.
But the wanting finds the wound
and settles in the bone.
No matter where I travel,
I am not alone.
They say envy eats the sinner first.
I have read enough to know right
but knowing feeds the thirst.
I calculate the difference
between your life and mine—
and every calculation
draws a sharper line.
Sick with it.
Thick with it.
Cannot shake this need.
I want your house, your fortune,
and the life you lead.
It coats my tongue and clouds my sight.
I have been wanting what is yours
since way before last night.
Do not tell me just to love
what I have already got.
Do not tell me it is a character defect of the slot.
I know what is eating me.
I know it by its bitter taste.
And knowing does not stop the wanting—
it just picks the pace.