Frustration

I squeeze it in my hands tightly,
deforming it, misshaping it.

The company that made it would not recognize it.
They wouldn't want it back.

It is not worth the plastic it is made of,
nor of the drink it contains.

Shaken and stirred, all bubbles gone,
it is not fit to be sold, nor to be drunk.

I clench my fists
pass it from hand to hand.

I wish to throw it far.
As far as it may go.

I want it to hit something.
I want to hear a thud.

I want to squeeze it until it is no more,
and hurl it into oblivion.

I want to be rid of this
and I want it to be gone from me.

And somehow when I get home I realize
it is still clenched in my hand.

So tight, it has made an indent on my palm.
I cannot throw it.
I cannot hurl it.
I cannot destroy it.

So I clench my teeth
I twist it some more hoping that it will explode
before I do.