I am fluent in 4 languages.
The first obviously, English which I speak to you in.
The second, sarcasm.
The third, profanity.
The fourth, feeling
I am fluent in the words you don't say, the emotion you deny.
I am fluent in the things you beg me not to let roll off my tongue.
What would you say if I told you I've heard all those tears you never let yourself cry?
It's the truth, I scream.
It's a lie, you hiss.
I've heard the shattering sound your heart makes, I've heard the echo of the pieces falling like glass.
I've tried to pick out the slivers embedded into my own chest but I seem to be making it worse.
I think the blood surrounding us is mine, my heart won't stop bleeding.
I can't feel the floor.
I'll be alright, I'm just another casualty in your self-hatred war.
I know the language of love, though I wouldn't say I'm fluent.
Mine is messy and intense.
I'll convince you to take a dip with me and remember I don't know how to swim.
I'll stumble on my words and forget my part of the lines but up and down is the only way I learned to fly.
So languages, I know several.
But what you can't seem to comprehend is I myself have a language.
You have to listen to understand.