every morning before you wake I tiptoe around the house in search of sharp objects you could use to end my life with I gather them all in plastic bags and bury them in the backyard gone is your father's army knife you could use it to gouge my eyes out gone is the dinette set the knives scissors nail clippers oh they'd never suspect that you could claim it was an accident i'm haunted by visions of you slitting my throat they wake me while the moon is still young and i look to my left at the man sleeping beside me and wonder if he envisions it too maybe it's just paranoia getting the best of me maybe ridding this house of kitchenware is the only way I can be happy