The hopelessness of silent rage

you're fucking me off, bitch.
can't you see beneath these dull eyes
lies
a dormant fire? that unresolved argument
that stands incandescent
is burning a hole in my mettle,
scarring our friendship
like a silent blade that
re-opens an old wound
again
and again.
my mind is smothered by a haze of kindling
that you set off so long ago;
slowly
scorching through my patience.
no, your sour smile does little to hide
the bitching that goes on
when I'm not there to recriprocate -
if I was, like a shadow-boxer
i'd send blows
that would hurt
and sting just like
the guilt i'm feeling now.
- guilt?
I feel guilty for a fucked up bitch's
fucking around with me.
where's the justice in that?
maybe it's because
I resent the fact I can't hate you
indefinitely.
I can't.
and it makes me mad.
neither a beginning
or end to this feud reveals itself to me
and until it does, my silent rage lies in continuum,
glowering dumbly upon your provocations.