I’m too poor to give away my heart.
Like rent is due and we all too hungry.
To be poets.
I’m too poor to give away my bones.
Like it’s dark and cold and we ain’t got enough blankets.
I’m too poor to give away my blood.
Like bus fare scrounged from the old couch and worn out shoes.
I’m too poor not to sell my soul.
Like yes I feel welcome in your journal and hooray for white and dark white diversity.
I’m still too poor.
Too poor to finish this poem.