Jealousy, Unfed

I used to feed jealousy like a stray cat

little bites of my attention,

a soft “it’s fine,”

a scroll at midnight with my jaw clenched.

﹁﹂

It always came back, louder.

Purring sharp, rubbing on my ankles

When I was trying to cook peace

in a too-small kitchen.

﹁﹂

The worst part?

Jealousy never ate alone.

It invited its friends:

comparison, suspicion, that old hunger

that pretends it’s just being “careful.”

﹁﹂

I’d measure my worth in notifications,

In who got the better smile,

In that photo where your hand

looked like it belonged somewhere else.

(Or maybe it didn’t.

My brain is a talented liar.)

﹁﹂

So I changed the bowl.

I stopped leaving scraps on the counter.

I muted, unfollowed, deleted

small, unromantic miracles.

﹁﹂

I took myself on a walk

without checking if anyone missed me.

I watched a dog drag a stick twice its size

and thought: yes, that’s me,

dragging old stories for no reason.

﹁﹂

Now when jealousy shows up,

I don’t slam the door.

I just don’t set a place.

I let it stand there, awkward,

until it remembers it’s not in charge.