onion man.

sometimes

I just want to feel that serrated edge
snag on the folds of my skin
it catches

the blade, like waves
gliding, slicing through
layer upon layer
pain surfacing
from some place deeper
burrowed in the decaying recesses
of that old forgotten wound

this is all I'm made of
layer upon layer
worry upon guilt
upon worthlessness
they all have the same
metallic, cloying smell
when they meet the cooling air
they like the view up there
but they never go

you'd think, which each strand of hair
falling, they'd go somewhere
but no, they clot, exit sealed
they burrow deeper still
and wait for that salted tide
to reach lidded shore again.