Plants
Originally Uploaded here by bokchoyboy
An onion. A strange metaphor I've used more than once to describe myself. I like it, unflattering and to the point. Layers upon layers, so surprisingly different yet similar, and it's entirely likely I'll make you cry.
You peel enough layers off this root, it starts to break down. And bits of truth I've covered with layers of strength start to wear me down, like burning rust cascading downwards like a waterfall. Erosion of metal in some strange firery reversal of gravity, or perhaps gravitas.
I'm guilty, for I am so very much like you. You came to me with want in your eyes and this time I did not mistake it. I did this came the report, aren't you proud of me? And I should have been. Too much sexuality and love wrapped up in that fruit though, soft tender insides grounded by a sharp seed. Every time I try to devour you I cut myself.
And that's the truth of it, your plum for my lychee. Beth pegged me, and maybe my onion is a little bit too much perfect emo-symbolism to actually be true, like the drug addiction paradigm of the existing pharmacracy. A sharp, bony shell, like being wrapped in rose thorns like a thin-wristed girl. But soft and easily broken translucent layers underneath, thin skinned yet complex, like webbing forming a glass sculpture. And last, but not least, the core, the nut, my actuality, the last point of pragmatism that I cannot escape.
Nor do I wish to.
Goodnight.
Written On: Home Computer