90 cents

I’m good
How about you?
“I’m good too” they say
But I both know that’s a lie because

Little black numbers
Verdana 11 black font
Each curved elegantly, but rigid
remind me that I have nothing left

My email inbox is full
Full of messages warning me of what I know.
I don’t open them
I am afraid to see the truth on paper


I can't sell myself anymore.

I seem to work all the time,
 but nothing satisfies
that financial beast

who swallows my life and spits it out.


My money never stays anywhere too long

It quickly leaves me
to go spend its life In someone else's back account
While mine is quickly drying up.
 

90 cents. I could make it a round dollar if I go look in the parking lot

I am sure some lucky and privileged kid left a dime there. 

It probably fell from his car

He probably drove away. Too much energy would be wasted to pick it up.

 I paid the tuition this fall. My summer gone in one click
But the numbers they send you
Aren’t the ones that you trust
There is always something else that needs to be paid

I have thrown my ravens into the air and none have returned

I have tried and searched for opportunities to get me out,
But everything ends with nothing going right
I have sent my last dove and I am waiting for it to come back.


I can't call my parents one more time.

I can't stand there and have my parents slip $100 into my wallet

When they have fought for me to stay in school
Even when the numbers don’t add up


They have done everything possible for me
and I can't open another letter from them and see a crumpled $20 bill
smashed between the pages of my mom's handwriting.
It's her babysitting money with the words, "I'll send more next time" 


The education I have worked for is becoming my regret
But I know it’s right.
I know for some reason I am still here
Even when there are 90 reasons to leave

 

 

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