More Whining

I have always felt that jealousy is one of the ugliest, most damaging emotions a person can experience. It eats away at you, first with a slight knawing, until it grown and consumes every thought, every deed, every word. There is no controlling it, and there is no escape from it.

And now I feel it. It sits like a rock in my stomach, and I wish for another life constantly. And this is no ordinary jealousy. This is the jealousy of things unknown, the jealousy that lives in my imagination. I am able to concoct the most callous betrayal. The most invincible adversary. She is perfect in all she says, does, and is--and how could he resist? I am but old news--tossed in the recycling bin for someone else--now that I have been read. I am not worth keeping, especially when I compare myself to this poem girl I see. I am jealous of his time, his attention, his body. I can't bear for anyone else to have it--or rather for him to give it to anyone else.

And I think, how childish. I created this scenario. I allow this jealousy to grow from my brokenhearted insecurity. But then I think--What if I'm right?