Texas toothpick

Woke up with a wicked head
throbbing with Saturday's rum.
I'd won at cards, or had I?
A dagger stuck into the floorboards
next to my bed revealed the blunt attempt
at a mnemonic device I'd made before passing out.
I must've wanted to remember something in the haze
of the morning after and pulled the boot knife
I keep tucked between my mattress and boxspring
to stab into the worn-down grain. It came to me then:
a laughable idea, another attempt to right a wrong
by fumbling further into irreversible oblivion. She'd need
a helping hand from a guy like me like a hole in the head.
And what they said was wrong: I didn't drive her to do it
or to let it be done to her I should say. There's still
accountability, regardless of the weather. I yanked
the black blade from its solid vertical stance and
jabbed it back between the sheets all the while wishing
I had the brass to sink the steel where it really belonged.
Give me a song and I'll sing it. I can't seem to hold this tune.