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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.
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May 5
May 5, 2026 at 6:17 PM UTC
Onions
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.
(this poem is not about onions.)
#selfharm#selfharmawareness#mentalhealth
Written by
abiiburger
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 6:17 PM UTC
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