Bonta's short poem is a blunt self-portrait of a bad mood. The speaker compares their temper to a blade carried in the teeth, and the image is both vivid and uncomfortable. Holding a knife in your mouth leaves your hands free, as if you're ready for action, but it's also reckless. One wrong move and you hurt yourself. That seems to be how the speaker sees their anger: something they carry around, dangerous to others and to themselves.
The second stanza turns domestic and a little wry. The temper is "not fit to go to bed with," so it can't be brought into the place meant for rest or closeness. The speaker also admits they hope to sleep, which suggests they know the anger is keeping them awake, or would. The mood is tense and edgy, but there's honesty in it. The speaker isn't boasting about being fierce. They sound tired of their own sharpness, and a bit ashamed of it.