about a bee

There is a friend of mine who makes it easy for people to love her.
I envy her the way she will plunge right in and appropriate affection as though it were her due. I envy her the way she always gets that affection; the way it is always given willingly, ungrudgingly, naturally. I envy her the way she manages to throw herself into someone's life and then, without a thought, treat them as though she has known them all her life.
I find it ironic that I, wanting the love so much, find it so hard to demand it as due, perhaps only because I cannot see what in me is worth that much. And I tiptoe outside friendships before they are; and I persist in making all the wrong moves; out of fear, and ignorance, and stupidity; and I am jealous, oh, jealous, of all those who make it work without thinking.
For as much as I scream, Oh, but I knew them first, I will always lose, because she always knows them better.

And it is strange to think this is an open letter to people who probably don't stop by here any more anyway.
*sigh*

oh, and.
new poem.
they seem to always go hand in hand.