Plucked

How vile, how wretched it is,

to watch words be pulled from my body.

Plucked, quickly and callously, they form a bloody pile in front of me.

Mangled.

Mine. But not.

Not mine.

Because

before I could have fully known those words,

or any,

before I could have felt them beating in my chest,

before they could be carried up from the depths of my lungs,

to the tip of my tongue,

onto my lips,

and before I could let those words be exposed to the world...

pluck...

pluck...

pluck...

the words exposed me.

And left me naked.

Should I just hand over my aching heart into grisly hands and whisper,

"Be gentle,"

even though I can already feel jagged fingers prodding it,

feel lustful eyes feasting on it,

all whilst I clutch it in my own chest?

Of course not.

But then you summon my speech.

Yank at it impatiently,

anxiously,

to leave me,

s-s-s-stuttering,

s-s-s-stammering,

gasping,

naked.

Plucked.

Now you’ve seen.

But not.

Not really.

Not mine.

Not me.