Life keeps circling itself
like a board
passing the same corners,
landing on the same debts,
learning how quickly
ownership becomes survival.

Some people
inherit Boardwalk.
Others spend years
trying not to drown
between rent payments.

The rules pretend
everyone begins equally,
but even as children
we understood differently.

Some players touched money
without counting it first.
Some of us learned arithmetic
through overdue notices,
through watching mothers
stretch one paycheck
across impossible weeks.

Collect two hundred dollars.
Pay what you owe.
Advance carefully.
Do not land somewhere
you cannot afford to survive.

Even love began feeling transactional.
People measured worth
through usefulness.
Who gives more. Who costs less.
Who became a burden once they stop
producing comfort for everyone else.

I watched family move this way
hoarding softness like property,
passing responsibility to whoever
looked strongest that week.

Everybody wanted a place to stay
without helping build the house.
And somehow
the people with the least
were always expected
to sacrifice the most.

There are emotional landlords too.
People who collect rent from your patience.
People who monopolize tenderness
while offering almost nothing in return.

I spent years believing
survival meant endurance.
Keep moving. Keep paying.
Keep the peace long enough
to avoid emotional foreclosure.

But exhaustion accumulates interest.
One day the body notices
how much of itself has been overdrawn.

That was the year I stopped
confusing loyalty with captivity.
Stopped believing shared blood
required permanent suffering.

Because some people
will keep circling your life
collecting comfort from you
until there is nothing left
but utility bills and resentment.

So now I think differently about wealth.

Peace is wealth.
Distance is wealth.
Privacy is wealth.
The ability to leave a table
before it consumes you is wealth.

And maybe winning
was never about ownership.
Maybe it was learning
which spaces no longer
deserve access to you.

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