A Pocketful of I's

I’m the indigestion in your stomach,
After you ate that last June bug with Tabasco sauce.
I’m the half-written letter that never made it to your mailbox.
I’m the secret you hide in your locked desk drawer -
The one with the hand grenade and 10-inch knife.
I’m of the unlucky breed, the kind you never want
To socialize with.
I bother you when you want to be left alone.
I leave you sterile when you want to have children.
I set my priorities above your more important matters.
I bleed even when you bandage the cut.
I haggle with your positive outlook on life
And give you minor scrapes.
Sorry about the major ones.
I eliminate polite gestures and courteous deeds from your mind.
Sex, theft, and addiction follow you because of me.
I play God when you lose sight of your faith.
I am the last lie that curled from your lips.
And lingers in your first morning breath.