Whenever I hurt you it makes me cry,
But still I cannot stop myself: although
I love your smell, your taste, to gratify
Myself, I need this knife to cut you so
You open up, but as you do, a flow
Of water starts within my smarting eye,
Regretting that same appetite you grow,
Wetting my fingers, previously dry.
Now deep inside you, with my blade I pry
Among your secret layers, and apply
More strength, more speed, determined now to go
All the way into the pan where you fry.
Now to confess it: this was all a lie.
I never chopped a single onion, no.
Wed 25 July 2007
No comments:
Post a Comment