It's not jealousy. Jealousy would require me to want. Its nothing that I want. Its a nothing that I wish I did. And it makes me sad to see someone else getting it, and doing the things that I wish that I could myself do. But I can't, because I'm not made in a way that allows me to do such things. And as such I have no reason to care other than the sake of caring. And I'll tell myself that I don't, because when it comes down to what it is and what it means I don't. But I do care because it's something that I can't acheive. So what is that? Envy? Or is that the same thing as jealousy?
I find my heart wishing I could do something differently or want things differently or try things in a new way, but here I am. Still trying to figure out why I dont feel like I can do anything right. Wondering what I did wrong and why the happiness of someone else for a thing I never wanted in the first place is something that breaks my heart.
Perhaps dishonesty is the root of this confusion. I am being dishonest with myself and everything that goes along with that. There was once a part of me that wanted something different than the something that I have. But that something that I've lost I had reliquenshed when it was gone, and accepted this loss as something that could never be found again.
But still as if it were a lost limb blown off in a war of love, or passion, or indifference, I still feel the phantom flinch. Willing something to move only to find that it no longer exists. A phantom itch for someone thats been severed a time ago. An itch that even if I were able to scratch, wouldn't satisfy the feeling of something being gone. The void of something lost that I didn't know I had to begin with.

Something

Theres a feeling that I get. It's when someone pays attention to me, the look on their face when they're looking at me. It makes me uncomfortable to look back and see all the things that I'm feeling reflected back. At me. But in the form of someone else's expressions. And I feel lost, and warm, and nervous. And my body starts to get sweaty, but not in the normal ways that bodies start to get sweaty. Near my butt, and under my neck. Sweat just pools. Because I'm so nervous about the way they're looking. Because they're looking at me. And I'm standing there trying really hard to look back in some way that could possibly equal the response they're getting in me. But I can't. My mouth doesn't contort the direction I want it to, its maintaining it's natural flatline. Making the time of death of every romantic encounter the instance of first contact. Eye contact. And I can't bear to look up again because I can feel their gaze boring a hole into the side of my face, the back of my thigh, the top of my breast. It burns. It's hollowing me out.
And it's not that I want to make something of this. These glances and hollowing stares. I don't want to take them home and into my bed. I don't want them to know how I smell when I wake up in the morning or know the feelings that live in my head. I don't want them to know me the way I know nobody knows myself.
But I want someone to feel that I'm there. The way I can feel them there. Staring, and hollowing. For one second. Just long enough to be able to say that somebody felt me. Just long enough for someone to know the feeling of me feeling them there.