In eighth grade, 
I wasn’t jealous 
of the cheerleader
who sat next to me 
in social studies class. 

I was jealous 
of the girl 
who lay next to me
in the critical care unit.

She’d chosen a razor blade,
while I had picked pills. 

Six months
after we were released 
I found out
she’d tried, tried again
and succeeded. 

All I’d done
was get elected
to the homecoming court.