She eats onions like apples,
holding them in palm’s embrace,
mouth wide and gaping against
the brown paper crinkle of skin,
teeth tearing crisply into fiery flesh.
She keeps them in her purse,
rolling loosely around with lipsticks
and credit cards, the scent of dark earth
breathing out against her sway of hip,
reptilian skin flaking off in dusty pieces.
She says she loves the taste,
a green fire that burns her tongue
eyes red with the sting of tears
as raw cells burst and leave
her body shielded with scent.
She said it was the only thing
that helped her forget you.