Envy
is a silly thing
A weight on one’s back
stale breeze on one’s face
I hold you by Your waist
in my gental hands
look into Your white eyes
to be like You,
naive
Free
Such a silly thing
to hate
every essence
of my vile being
to look at You
an idol of virtue
and wish to Rip
to Tear
To whom do I owe this retribution?
not You
You who have done
no wrong
Not like me.
for I am the mortal Invidia.
Perhaps it is Your light
Your purity
each finger and curve
so wantly crafted
a true Persephone,
to my Hepaestus
It is my execution day.
Strung by my neck
feet dangling over a chasm
I look over my shoulder
towards Your divinity
Do You sense it?
my Hubris?
my Calm?
Fear not,
I am the doe
and it is You who weilds the knife
I am afraid
of You
of everything
They have tied my body to a pole
They chant for my demise
are You surprised?
I detest myself
though You may try to hate me more
each strand of greasy hair
every acid mole
who are You to say I have control?
What I envy
is not Your beauty
but that You are able
to want
to walk
free infront of heckling eyes
and be Unexceptional
to us monsters of the bush
in the lurking shadows of Your sight
such an act
is Incomprehensible
I hang.
