she was fourth
fourth favorite in the group
she knew this and said it like it didn’t make her want to tear her hair out
fuck
how?
I should stab my eyes out with the corner of the frame she gave me
a badly drawn version of my cat
she smiled
said she loved us
we were the greatest
it makes me want to vomit
did I think of her as fourth?
I want to say no, but there’s a part of me
this vile disgusting part of me that knew exactly what she was talking about
exactly
if I was her, I couldn’t stay
I couldn’t say things so sweetly
she loved us
she loved us
when we would drive to Barnes & Noble after she was called home
to talk, to pace the parking lot until 11:23pm
when we didn’t tell her we were getting together to eat ice cream
when we would sit in my car in front of number one’s house until 12:16am
talking about how miserable we were
fuck
I’m second
I know this, even though really don’t want to know this
I don’t know how I stayed
how she stayed
knowing there was this distinct hierarchy
we were the greatest
maybe that’s why no one talked to us
why we’d pull out of the Jack in the Box drive thru at 10:54pm and eat the buttermilk ranch slathered chicken strips lamenting how it was so hard to make friends while staring at that same leafless tree in a pot
how we were just too cool
we were intimidating
maybe we were just assholes
and I wasn’t even first asshole
and she was fourth

I don’t usually write long poems. But I had an interaction with a friend of mine recently that inspired this poem.

Bottomline: Hierarchy just breeds bad feelings. Let’s all become hippies, grow tomatoes and milk goats.