From the primitive mind of man, there sprang the sin of envy—an idea, that wanting what another has, is wrong, and a step to damnation.

And now, I see why. I see why.

This envy, green and red and burning hot—it swims and blurs within my vision, stings like grief.

I envy you, and I envy you so much. I wish I did not, almost—it is horrible, to think almost lowly of someone, and yet this envy stifles like velvet. Crushing, all-consuming.

You—have everything. Everything I want, so, so badly. The longing digs into my heart, scorches my mind so that it is numb and hurts.

I want what you want.

And it shrieks so pitifully, wanting, wanting. You have this, you have that. You are so much of what I hope for, what I have mere dreams of, and then not even that. I am wistful, so wistful, and jealous of you.

You are there. Right there. Mocking me, haunting me, without trying, or even knowing—you are innocent, and yet there you are—dancing and twisting like golden strands of hair, threads—threads that snap like twigs in my hands.

I see you, and I wish.

My gaze is hot as envy.