anger poem

What's going on? You asked
What's not going on?
What would not be going on in my head
when you smoked and smiled and asked me out for brunch, and,

Go fuck yourself, you scoffed

I will never forget that
I would remember that in my dreams and to my death
what the hell did you mean?

I thought we were just having fun, you mumbled

Fun, I repeat under my breath
But so quiet that you wouldn't hear
Fun. I repeat a bit louder again and this time I smile.

Weirdo. Strange. Hate you. Go away
I will shove you right back as you shoved me
in the shoulder, three nights ago
and ask, what's going on? 

three days after,

as you did to me.
But it will never feel the same
to you nor to me.
And that makes me unbearable.