I cut onions every day, blade in hand,
Not for the meals, but for tears on demand.
I slice and I dice, the knife’s steady glide,
Hoping the sting will match what I hide.
But no matter how deep, no matter how sharp,
These eyes stay dry, despite the heart’s harp.
The pain, it's buried, too deep to pry,
Even the onions can’t make me cry.
I crave the release, the flood of the soul,
But the dam’s too strong, the hurt takes its toll.
In the quiet of the kitchen, I stand and I try,
Cutting onions for tears that won’t comply.
The pain is a weight, too hard to hold,
A story untold, a heart grown cold.
Yet every day, I pick up the knife,
Hoping the onions will carve out my life.
But still, they fail, and so do I,
In this silent struggle, where I can’t cry.
So I cut and I cut, in this endless play,
Not to cook, but to cry—just for one day.
