The Difference

If I were to plead for pity
Would it be given freely?
Victims are despicable people
The villains of the saga to me 
I break down whenever I don't pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow
It's silent, making sound is a surrender 
Because if I voice my pain, I am no better than those who, in my sickened mind, caused this infliction. 
It's the one thing that fuels this complex, that I'm somehow stronger than them. 
I'm jealous of what they have. I just want that one thing, though I have what they don't. Human nature is hideous put in the wrong hands. God gives everyone a test, I'll survive my horrid jealousy and rid myself of hate. I'll learn to love them. To wish those people the best and happiness. Otherwise, I've let them beat me. I'll be the despicable victim. 
I would be able to cope if I just cursed their names for those silly distractions. If I blamed those names for my wrongdoings, I would be the victim. Each tear I cry is my own, no one else's. I am not going to anyone for their sympathy or apathy. I am jealous of trivial things and it's my fault. 
I want false affections. They have it. I've got real affection. They want it. I'm blessed. Each tear is my own. Not that of one scorned, but of one living.