Envy in Ink
The page never sounds right.
Sentences limp,
bloated with effort,
while their words
God, their words glide
like glass knives across silk.
Elegant. Effortless.
Mine? Sweat-stained.
Begging to be seen.
And once,
a line came smooth.
Sharp. Clean.
It sang like it meant something.
For a moment, it was beautiful.
Then came the echo.
A rhythm too close,
a phrase too familiar
the scent of them in it.
And suddenly it reeked.
The pen slashed through it
before thought could stop the hand.
Can’t steal what you never meant to.
Can’t keep what never felt like yours.
Cross it out.
Try again.
Still wrong.
Try harder.
Still… them.
Still not enough.
Their poems win awards.
Mine whisper from trash bins.
Every stanza feels
like dressing in rags
to attend a formal event.
Fingers cramp from mimicry.
Tongue goes numb from biting it.
Cross it out.
Rip the page.
Tear the draft.
Bleed the font dry.
If it’s all wrong,
maybe it’s the hand.
Yes.
The hand.
Snap the pencil fingers.
Ink won’t spill
if the wrists are broken.
Maybe then
they’ll stop shaking
with want.
The mirror in the study cracks.
Not from pressure
from recognition.
This isn’t a writer.
This is a wound
that learned to spell.
Start with the voice
pull it out.
Still too loud.
Then the throat
gag it with pages.
Too soft.
Then the eyes.
Too jealous.
Can’t unsee the brilliance
that isn’t yours.
At last,
when nothing is left
but gnawed stumps and breathless envy,
the story writes itself:
"They were better. I was hungry."
And hunger, it seems,
was the only thing
ever worth writing.
~ Heather Patton The Verdant Butterfly