Mute

It's only now I'm pressing Equals,
realising your faults are mine
mirrored. In games you are hysterical
and I forget myself and whine.

I realise your faults, and mine
the seam, unpick your calm, spit,
forget myself and whine
that it doesn't matter and you're blowing it.

Seems you pick your calm. It spits
like bacon fat, in starts, then bang.
Nothing matters and you're blowing it
Wallwards the controller's flung

like bacon fat. It's started. Bang.
Your hand follows the route,
wallwards, of your controller, flung
limp against the plaster. Then I shoot.

Your hand falls. Rude,
ridiculous, childish, overreacting,
I list. You don a plaster. Still I shoot.
It's only a game. A game. We're playing.

Ridiculous, this childish overreacting.
Your voice and mine both shriek.
It's only a game! A game we're playing
and one you're doing your best to wreck.

Your voice my Dad's, the shriek
his towards my Mum over little things.
You're doing your best impression. This wreck
of a game is the kitchen

in which my Mum missed little things,
only to meet with my Dad's banshee scream
as he came into the kitchen.
Why? No, what do you mean?

Then she met my Dad's with her banshee scream.
Both invade your bray now.
Why? No, what do you mean?
You throw hands aloft, howl away

invaders to your bray now,
like me, who screams to drown you, stop this,
grab the hands aloft, lock the howl away,
gum you, when it's me who swears the loudest

Me who screams to drown you, stop this
mirroring. These games make us hysterical,
gum us, and it's me who swears the loudest.
It's just it's only now I'm pressing Equals.