The Clock

It's constant ticking, continues to fuel my angst. As you lay next to me, sleeping soundly, my rage flows out of its banks.

I was convinced, you were the one. Hurting me was the last thing you'd do. Yet here we are, and I struggle to believe you're true.

They never seem to leave. The ones from you past, so present in our present. You bring them back, as if you're the Quija board and the ghost.
My head and heart are the host.