Pluck

I didn’t know I wanted anything until it stumbled into my 4am
          house, 
wooden floors creaking and aching as we pushed 
 
against furniture in clusters of clumsy pressure. after he left, 
I looked at my chest, where he had been kissing, eagerly, 
 
the freckled milk there. I plucked what I hadn’t seen
before, what his hot mouth raked over, unaware of my excess.
 
I plucked, still, even as my body was re-sculpted in want. 
in the dark of that night, I watched love unravel in diamonds 
 
and red walls. in monstera leaves and slices of lime. I tripped
over my own feet as they bled. I yelled into the dawn and it yelled
 
back. I heard, as if from outside in my dust-heavy yard, 
on the cobblestone street, words slur from my tongue in frantic
          patterns.
 
I am so lonely spilled from my mouth and I felt no shame about it. 
it was a fact, honest, the undeniable truth of a man in my house 
 
where there once was not. as I corralled him out of my house and
          into
the night, we knelt against the floor and peered under my bed
 
at the glowing moons of my cat’s eyes, 
my black dress pooling around me like a black hole.