All Your Stupid Friends (Are Not Better Than Me At All)
a prose poem experiment
Once upon a time, I told myself they were better than me.
They had to be, right? You spent all your time with them. I was the scrap left to another day while I wondered what the hell was wrong with me that I could not gain even one iota of your attention.
But it didn’t matter, did it? I was using a measuring stick from another age when friendship actually meant something more than it does now.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe a camaraderie of sorts — but that never happened. I backed away because I was protecting myself. What was your excuse?
Because I look at them and I look at myself and then I know it was a clash of personalities above all else.
Perhaps you had too much personality while I had too little. That’s just the way these things go.
But I watched you from my sidelines and I knew, just knew, that I was better than that winsome crowd.
I’ll never be singing a song of popularity at the top of my lungs, but I knew what my worth was. Life may not have christened me with grace or charm, but I was a good person through it all.
