I wouldn't call it envy.
I would simply call it sadness,
A slap in the face
But constant and always stinging.
The handprint left, so bruised a miracle could not remove.
But it returns each day, seeking the warmth of a familiar face.
It returns hoping for forgivness.
But the slap just hits harder,
Until the skin cracks, not only the surface.
The blood runs deep, but fails to show.
Its mask is routine in its ways, having mastered the technique long ago.
Occasionaly a scab forms, and the pain is blocked for a spell.
Inevitably the blood flows once more, depriving the scars of their duty,
Slashing the wound repeatedly.
Soon there will be nothing left.
No hope to rely on, no joy to be drained out.
In time the stinging fades, becomes numb, until the pain only exists and is not felt.
In time, it will heal.