I Never Heard The Words You Mumbled Poem by Mark Heathcote

I never heard the words you mumbled and said.
In secret when we were lying spooned in bed.
'Lord, let him die in his sleep in his bed.'
His snoring is vying with the living dead.
To drive me running from his zombie claws, and his gaping jaws.
Oh, I am going stir-crazy by his side.
Lord, I can't quite quiet the madness of my raging mind.
It's tapping into thoughts of aggravated murder.
Knife or poison, which is the better — the latter?
Lord, should I write him a suicide letter and sign it in his blood
Or nudge him violently and kiss him later
And remind him I'm his lover or simply—
Put my head in the gas cooker.
And tell the world he cheated on me with another.
Lord, silence, silence I pray for silence.
But morning draws the curtains wide.
So, I give him another panoramic smile and pretend I am just fine, I am just physically worn out and emotionally somewhat tired.
'I am fine, darling, honestly, nothing could be any better.'
'Kiss me quick.' I have this urgent yet unopened letter.