Jasmine Duncan reads her poem, “Green-Eyed” at the Share Your Heart poetry event. Photo credit: Larissa Hebert

Jasmine Duncan, Writer

Green-eyed: To be jealous or envious. Example: “O beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.”

Growing up, I always wanted to be the best.

Sure! Being good at something is easy, but being the best?

I’m good at performing, good with people and decent enough with art but I’ve never been able to change someone’s


To touch somebody’s heart and grace the places that have never been touched before,

to enlighten and bring new meaning to something that was once broken and torn apart.

In the end, this feeling lies in things I want,

things that you hear people talk about when they’re describing the “Perfect person.”

I want to be able to write poetry that never fails to impress,

to read all of the classics and never have to look at the same sentence over and over again without understanding it.

I want to sway my teachers by writing or creating something that they’re truly proud of, but I can’t recall the last time

I really did any of this.

It’s gross but honestly, I just want people to wish they could be like me.

But there’s always someone that somehow does this selflessly,

someone better, someone smarter, someone prettier, more talented.

I’ll sit in front of them

and I’ll pick them apart, limb for limb

and mistake by mistake

like I’m some sort of qualified critic

doing exactly what I worry they’ll do to me.

I’ll sit and watch as their words carefully grace the room

wrapping around the hearts of those with their head in their hands

as they stare with glassy eyes and gentle smiles…

In their mind, admiration is a weak word to describe what they’re experiencing.

This whole time I’ve been distracted with grabbing all of the low-hanging fruit for so long that the shiniest and

sweetest apples at the top of the tree have fallen gone rotten.

Now, I could sit down and blame this on something else.

But despite wanting there to be an excuse

in the end, it’s just me.

Me and my writhing jealousy and basket full of rotten apples.

But maybe I was born to be this way, I do have green eyes after all.

So please, beware, my lord, of jealousy: It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on