My rich homie lets me borrow his Beamer sometimes.

“Put it in Sport mode,” he says.

I never have.

I glide down highways slowly.

He works a lot,

and we all wish we saw him more—

I wish he saw himself more.

I’ve known him a long time.

Pretty much,

he’s always been rich—

though he doesn’t see it that way.

If he fucks with you,

he’ll tell you the hard truth

about anything you ask.

With me,

sometimes it’s unsolicited.

Our other homie once repeated

something he said

about me

and my job at the time:

“They don’t value her—

and she needs to value herself more.”

That was the gist.

I was pissed.

So pissed.

Then I sat with it.

Picked apart all the reasons

I was upset.

And it was true.

The time had come

for me to reassess

my value.

My rich homie’s truth

can triple salaries.

I’ve seen it.

Makes me believe

even more

that wealth

is internal.

There’s nuance, though.

Always.

Is wealth something

given by God?

Is it our birthright?

Where does it start?

Can you build it?

Or are you

just making visible

what already existed

for you?

What is wealth?

Is it time?

Is it money?

Is it people?

Is it time

to spend the money

with the people?

What is wealth?

What is rich?

Is it a feeling?

Is it worth it?

I’m most certainly

still figuring wealth

and riches out—

and I think

I always will be.

What I do know

is gratitude

makes me feel wealthy.

Thank you, my God.

Thank you.

My rich homie

lets me borrow his Beamer sometimes.

“Put it in Sport mode,” he says.

And maybe,

I will

next time.