subtraction

sometimes I get angry all over again

even now

waking up in the middle of the night with the thought

*thousands of dollars*

like a heart gasp


the thought that the pattern happened more than once

the shame in generosity

the way holding someone else's hand meant I could never get ahead

the way the man who read my palm, voluntarily, at the corner store

knew and warmed me, even

and still


my heart is a calculator who will wake me up at night 

to tell me something isn't right 

years, even a decade, after the subtraction


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