I have 3 arms.
My third arm is recent, and feels more sore each day.
It comes in handy at times,
No pun intended.
It serves uses, and at times would seem a blessing.
It hides in its sleeve.
It punches me at night.
I wake up bruised and discouraged, hurt.
It has grown tired of me; it wants to break free.
My joyous memories with it are slowly fading
Outweighed by the nighttime beatings.
Its fingers clutch with no command.
I have lost my control.
There's only one clear solution to be rid of it before it kills me,
Finds a weapon in its desperate grasping.
I can't. It's too late, too much pain.
We are two parasites.
The past has doomed us.