[We don't want to go home, but we are so very sick...]

We don't want to go home, but we are so very sick
of the cold. We rush down stairs, we mind the gap,
and we look for a corner to keep us warm. How long
must we search? It feels like it's been forever

without a bed. We rent-to-own, sometimes sleeping
on a mattress made of air. Sometimes, a sofa
made of bone. No, no -- now you've gone too far.
This is our issue now. We have not gone far enough.

But we are the truest blue -- won't somebody
see this? We've strangled ghosts we've loved more
for less, and we are prepared to misbehave.
We loved them, you see, but they didn't recognize us

anymore. They had to go! back to bed with those
sons of bitches. They kicked and screamed, broke
the backs of chairs as they went. And we laughed
a little bit, like we couldn't see the future. Like

we didn't know their hold on us. Like we didn't
feel their soft, cold palms in our itchy ones.

Sentimental X's (A Title Stolen from Broken Social Scene)

The sound of this day is an incantation; we have conjured a spirit
both ancient and terrifying.
Why do we hate the state we've found?

We don't hate the state.

We are in simple disagreement. She was content
with the life she lead, the head
on her tanned shoulders swiveled.

We all want the next best thing. We all wait for

the next best thing. We all want the next hometown.
We all want the next Asian boyfriend.
Well how do you like them apples? 

We've got ourselves a comedian.

This room, we see, is too full of ghosts. I think our beer
has been dosed. Someone found us having too much
fun. Someone found our beds full-up with new flesh.

Found our volume too high, our laughter too sincere.

We don't want these ghosts anymore. Our new home,
grid like a maze, have hidden us in plain view. One
of many now. One of the disappeared. We have found

new life. You didn't believe, but we said we were exorcising. 

Please, don't read this unless you have to.
Sometimes writers
have a way of haunting back.