[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.