Here, a speaker is caught in the raw aftermath of a loss that has no official name. Thinking about "you" used to send them toward the bottle, but now drinking feels like the wrong answer. What's left is something rougher and more physical: the urge to punch a wall with both fists until they bleed, to scream, to cry. The title, "fists.", sets that clenched, aching tone from the start.
The last two lines carry the real sting. The speaker is going through heartbreak "for someone who wasn't even mine." That admission feels both honest and a little embarrassing, as if they know their pain doesn't have a proper reason and can't stop feeling it anyway. The short, plain lines and lowercase style make it sound like a confession rather than a polished performance. The mood is angry, helpless, and sad all at once, and the poem suggests how lonely it can be to mourn something that never officially existed.