Envy
i was chartreuse at first,
maybe a hint of lime over pink flesh.
upon reflection now,
i'm a dead emerald.
no sparkle, but the deepest green,
darkened by 22 years of
grief
trauma
pain.
my feet and legs went first
upon discovering
that some people run for fun,
not because they have to.
my hips because
some people have never been
caressed by someone
who had no right to do so.
my stomach because
thin people get taken seriously
by doctors, by modeling agencies.
my arms are covered
in the color
of remembering that
some people never slashed them open
to feel something more than
numb.
my throat envies those
who never had to scream
or to swallow the lump in their throats
no matter how much it choked them.
my ears long to unhear
the wailing of my mother,
the recount of the rapes from
countless friends,
the broken sobbing
of my only love,
after the absence of the gun
that my hands snatched away.
that time, it was close.
even my brain
turns green with
more-than-jealousy
because they
never had to take
three pills a day
just to function.
i would kill to be
blissfully ignorant,
to be shallow,
to be vain,
to be immature,
to not constantly worry.
what i wouldn't give
to be pink again.