Picking up the Pits

There is nothing in my kitchen for you
save the stench of bleach,
which I bring to bed with me anyway:
Smell my fingers.

My father is in the attic, spitting cherry pits.
Once he spit one into my mouth;
it felt like a tongue, and I am embarrassed to say.

I am not a lover.

Please don't ask me any more,
this is never going to change.

I am giving you pebbles.
Take them in your hand and make a fist,
like jewels grinding against one another
as you compress.

That is how you make me feel.