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.