Frustigue

You and I should have our own words, don’t you think?

Our own words,

Different words,

To say what we feel

For those random, incongruous bursts

Of whatever it is that makes us hammer into the cracks

Of each other’s vulnerabilities. . .

I think I will call mine frustigue - this feeling -

The sound
Of pounding rubatosis,
As that little nerve on the corner of my right temple begins to throb,

As I feel the rush of blood crawl up my cheeks

To mirror the changing colors on your face,

And I can almost hear the clamoring emotions trapped inside of me -

When you ask

And I answer,

You ask

And I answer,

You ask

And I answer the same fucking question!

You can’t change the way I feel, you know,

By changing the words you use to ask.

And then you say ‘Don’t shout’?

You alone understand my fears

As I know yours;

It’s like fighting a battle we both lost. . .

So you just seal it with your middle finger

And a loudly mouthed ‘fuck you!’