I cried.
Not because you shattered my dreams or ripped my heart out of me.
Not because you destroyed every hope I ever had in men.
Not because you learned to hate me and abused my body and soul.

I cried because as I chopped this onion it forced me to cry. That's just what onions do. Kinda like you. That's just what you do.

He writes poems
the way he chooses what to wear in the morning
He does these two things like a child
learning Spanish, and he loves the language
very much, so why does it matter?
He feels at home
because Summer is eternal, being
the onions he hides under his floorboards
under his bed
He says, "They smell like shastas."