Edible

The onions in the dark corner of the shelf

have grown long, pale green necks

reaching for a light that doesn't reach back.

I finally pulled them out today.

The knife is dull. It slides off the skin

instead of biting through.

My eyes are leaking before the pan is even hot,

the sulfur vapor stinging like a secret

I’m tired of keeping from myself.

The oil starts to pop, tiny hot needles

hitting the back of my hand.

There is nobody coming over for dinner.

There is no one to tell me if the salt is too much

or if the center is still cold.

I just need to stop being hungry.