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I used to think
I would never be
jealous.
Now I am.
It's a nasty feeling.
It feels like a leech stuck in my neck,
greedily sucking out all happiness.
But it's not a leech –
it's a part of me.
I'm disgusted with myself.
I don't want to be possessive,
but I am.
I don't want to get furious,
but I do.
I feel like a rabid animal,
sulfureous,
about to spit fire.
I'm afraid I might hurt him –
not with fire, but with words.
I might want to hurt him first,
before I get hurt myself.
Breaking up
suddenly sounds
like a good thing.
Why should I wait for
him to discard me?
I'm making myself sick
with paranoia.
I feel like a loser
who has lost her mind.
I used to think jealousy is
a symptom
of a low self-esteem.
Only weak people have it.
Is love making me weak?
There is this expression
»to have a weakness for somebody« –
is that what it means?
I'm ashamed of being jealous.
But I can't help it.
I cried all night.
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