Mrs. Greystone’s knocking at my door again.
She’s keeping me up at night.
It all started back in October
when I saw her in the bathroom at the bar.
We locked eyes and I darted; she followed me back
into the party.
I ignored her, but she didn’t stop trying,
vying for my attention.
The next morning she came to my door,
tapped on it with her long pinky nail.
“Don’t you miss me, sweetie?”
she asks, saccharine sweet high fructose syrup.
She is thick and heavenly and divine.
“Don’t you miss your dear friend, honey?”
I pull my blinds shut and I go back to bed.
I ran into Mrs. Greystone again at the party.
She was kissing my friend in the corner so sweetly,
her powder falling flush onto my friend’s cheeks.
They beam, Mrs. Greystone moans.
They introduce me and I pretend I do not know her—
Mrs. Greystone, my dear old friend.
The next morning she came to my door,
knocked on it with a heavy fist.
“Why won’t you speak to me, sweetie?”
she wails, sickeningly sour post-nasal drip.
She is desperate and anxious and distressed.
“Don’t you want your dear friend, honey?”
I make sure the deadbolt is locked and I go back to bed.
The next time I see Mrs. Greystone I am looking for her.
I was at a party and I imagined the way I used to feel
when she would kiss me, and I call her
and made the mistake of telling her I missed her.
I hear her chuckle and laugh and scream—
our long anticipated reunion, at last.
I go back to my place and an hour later she arrives and is waiting.
She is slamming her body against my door.
“Open the fuck up, sweetie!”
she demands, she is sick and twisted and evil.
“Don’t you realize you need me, honey?
Don’t you realize it’s always been me, honey?
Who do you think got you through those dark times, cutie?
Why do you think you had so much fun in college, baby?
Remember High Falls mid-November? That was all me, sugar!
You think you are so confident, darling?
All those friends you used to have?
They were all because of me, honey!
Where are they now, sweetheart?
Not with you, are they?
Where am I, honey?
I have always stayed!”
Mrs. Greystone is knocking my door off of its hinges.
I scream as she bursts into my home,
the home I have created to protect myself from those like her.
I tell her to get out but it is too late.
She is on top of me, my head in her hands,
my lips slack, hers pursed.
She leans towards my face, it’s not so bad,
my dear old friend, the smell of her perfume gets me excited.
She can feel it; she grinds her hips; I arch away
because this close I feel all of her:
her crooked nose, her yellow teeth,
her greasy hair, her sunken cheeks,
her undereyes, her nasty breath.
So I pinch my nose and look away.
She tries again.
I do not stray.
You tried your best, Mrs. Greystone, honey,
but you lost again today.
Satori! 
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