The Wanting That Shames

I texted her congratulations

with an exclamation point

I didn't feel,

and then I put the phone down

on the couch

like it was burning.

The photo showed her office,

all that light

pouring through the window,

the kind of light

that means you've made it,

that means someone decided

you were worth the space.

And I sat there

feeling something ugly

twist in my chest,

something I don't recognize

in myself,

something that made me hate

my own face,

that made me want to be smaller

than I already am.

She didn't ask for this.

She worked for it.

I know that.

But knowing it doesn't stop

the wanting,

doesn't stop the part of me

that looked at that sunlight

and thought: that should be mine,

that should have been me,

why didn't anyone give me

a window like that?

I'm ashamed of it.

I'm ashamed of the smile

I sent her,

of the lie I told,

of the way I'm sitting here

in the dark

looking at the photo of her light

and feeling like I'm disappearing.