I tuck a blade
under my pillow at night.
It pokes at my temple,
and I become enslaved
to all the wrongs
you've tried to make right.

You stir in your sleep
And my grip is tight,
I wait for one more slight..

I wonder what will finally tick this bomb off.
Could it be the drumline of your snore
or the stench of another pocket whore?
The one you supposedly left behind.

You're always at the finish line,
the hare that's become tired
It's just not how I am wired.
For I slither like a snail
and leave a trail
of flailing disappointment.

Your...