Envy.

Envy is purple; the purple of swollen bruises.

It pricks, it tugs and it punches holes in your conscience.

Envy is that sour taste in your mouth when you see him with the most popular while you sit on the bench in the corner.

To envy is to want to switch shoes; or at least, to see her in extremely uncomfortable stilettos.

To envy is to want him to cry out of helplessness, to feel your boot smother his pride and to feel yourself above him.

Envy tastes of lemons—the green, sour ones—that make your taste-buds go gaga; the one you’d love you’d love to squeeze over her fresh, bleeding wounds and feed on her pain.