Iron aftertaste on the back of my tongue,
all around my gums,
like a mouth full of blood.

Gritty concrete beneath my bare feet,
swollen joints and uncontrollable tremors,
as I sit on my stone, this is no home,
just a spacious coffin.

Upside down piggy bank,
cork on the floor,
he dreams of being rich,
but instead wears a delightful frown.

And the space heater's crooked,
and it's turned on high,
collecting more dollars than the piggy can hold,
and it's still cold.

It is here where I sit,
on the coldest of nights,
where my mattress dips,
where I clench my fists,
where I fight off fits,
where I scribe my insides.