You crawl along the marrow in my long bones
and at the base of my skull, whispering in my ear.
You crawl between my legs
and curl around my teeth and fingernails.
"Let's get fucked up."
Even after all this time,
there you are, my old frenemy
offering your false comfort.
I'm not the lonesome kid that I was anymore,
the one who skipped the day when they taught the language
that gets you in and gets you by.
I was with my almost-twin, the future suicide.
"Let's check out,"
The worst I'm gonna do is oversleep,
so save it, killer.
I know you're lying cos your lips are moving.
You're the dark alley with roses at the way in.
You're the lover with zip ties in the pillowcase.
I'm the woman walking alone for miles and miles and miles.
I'm the woman who knows your moves and bogus line.
I'm not the lonesome kid I was anymore
but never learned the language, so made up my own--
It's killer stuff and I'm
whistling past the graveyard on my way home.
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I went looking for a poetry prompt and found one HERE. I used #3, to describe the sensation of listening to a favorite song in a language you don't understand. I chose Patricia's Mes Reves de Satin (Nights In White Satin.) I do know some French, but I'm not fluent.