I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing Roman cavalry choirs are singing Be my mirror, my sword and shield My missionaries in a foreign field For some reason I can’t explain I know St Peter won’t call my name Never an honest word But that was when I ruled the world
I envy the writers who can write good quality fanfics in one sitting and get it out the day they started writing it. I envy the writers who can give their followers new fics every fucking day. I envy writers who can easily get ideas and build from them without having to drive them self up the wall. I envy writers who don’t have to ask their friend for fanfic ideas or prompts because they don’t fucking have a single creative fucking bone in their motherfucking body. I envy writers who don’t have to spend days trying to put their thoughts into words and even when they do they can only manage to do two fucking paragraphs because they’re that fucking useless at what they love. I envy writers who find writing easy and simple and can do it without a fucking second thought. I envy writers that don’t need constant fucking validation to feel good enough because they’re that fucking paTHETIC. I FUCKING ENVY WRITERS THAT DONT FUCKIG HATE THEIR WORK THE MINUTE THEY START WRITING. I ENVY WRITERS THAT CAN PUT OUT WORK WITHOUT FUCKING SHAKINGN WITH FEAR OF IT BOT BEING GOOD ENOUGH. I FUCKING ENVY WRITERS THAT ARE CONFUDENT WITH THEMSELVES AND THEIR WRITING. I FUCKING ENVY MOTHERFUCKJNG WRITERS WHO DONT FUCKIGN THINK EVERY THING THEY DO IS ABSOLUTE SHIT
But not in the way you would think. I am jealous of the sheets on your bed that entangle themselves with you each night; the glass that feels the kiss of your lips in the morning; the morning light that illuminates your face, making it glow; the doorknob that feels the grasp of your hand every time you enter a room. I envy the walls that resonate the sound of your voice; the seat that feels the warmth of your body; the brush that runs itself through the locks of your hair; the air you breathe that gives you life. I am jealous of the things that experience what I cannot with you. That should be me wrapped up in your arms at night, kissing you in the morning, holding your hand until the break of dawn. I wish to hear your loving whispers and earnest laughs, feeling the heat of your proximity to mine as I comb my fingers through your tussled hair. I hope to be what breathes life into you, giving you a reason to see the beginning and end of each day.
I don’t get jealous,” I said before I met you.
Now, I am jealous. Of the landscapes you take pictures of. Do they know how lucky they are to have your attention?
I envy the walls you lean against when you’re too tired to stand, and the car keys you bring on your adventures, and the necklace that rests against your collarbone and warms to your skin.
I am jealous of the girl who studies your eyes as they change colors, without having to hide her gaze.
I ache to be your late-night craving, your early-morning thought.
I burn when you gift her with the smile I can’t stop writing about.
“I never got jealous,” I say.
“Not until I found something to be jealous for.