the stench of onions buries itself
underneath my finger nails
and no matter how hard i scrub
it lingers

earlier i chopped vegetables
haphazardly,
these days i do nothing with care,
hoping that one wrong stroke
will rip open an artery
and when they ask how i died
someone will say,
"she lost the fight with a bell pepper,"
as they try to fight the smirk
off of their quivering lips

and i'll be nothing but ashes
blowing with the wind
laughing at the fact
that my awkward ways are still
making others uncomfortable