I clean the blade, the soapy sponge rough but thorough.
I place the dry onion on the board, staring at it closely.
Do I want onions in my meal? How will the others think?
Suddenly the knife and my hand take a mind of its own,
Ignoring what people might think, just for now
For now, it’s what I want.
I cut the onion; it’s fumes slapping me on the face.
I bare the pain, cutting deeper into the onion
My eyes well up in tears, but I am too close now
I am too close to those onions I want,
The satisfaction of those onions.
The feeling of cutting those onions.
I drive the blade recklessly, slicing and dicing the onion.
I wipe my tears, biting my lip from the pain of the onion.
But I know how the onion will taste later.
My guests walk near the kitchen; I could not embarrass myself with crying from this onion.
People will not take me seriously.
I keep wiping away the tears, but I do not stop cutting the onion,
The fumes continuing to hit my eyes, making every second feel regretful.
But there’s a pleasure I have cutting these onions
I know eating them later will make me feel better
Relief my stress.
So, I’ll cut my own onions.
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 6:17 PM UTC