The Last Word

I thought we promised we wouldn't do this.
I thought I'd broken every pencil,
in my dusty cocoa mug.
I thought I'd bled every single pen into my sink;
draining the stains I used to use so freely.
But now it sits like a beady eyed bug,
It looks balefully at me.
And I hate it gladly.
One word more and I could float it in the river
to slide its reaching veins across the paper,
to its soggy edge.
And stain the edges like the drain of my bathroom sink,
where I thought you snapped the neck,
of every lousy word I ever met.
But perhaps no one was watching,
and one last word got caught in my throat.
So I'll quickly kill it on one last page.
Before your reaching hands can stop it.