Metanoia

Metanoia

I don’t know why you cry
If you were the one to cut me,
Says the Onion.
You are making me cry
I retort.
You can opt not to cut me,
You are choosing to cry
In order to have me.
But how will you ever become
Something else,
Something inside me?
Could you eat me whole?
You do not fit in my mouth entirely.
I would need to bite you.
One bite hurts less.
It would take me several.
I would rather be sliced by your teeth,
Than cut by your hand.
Why?
Because the knife is not a part of you.
It is an extension of your hand which cannot cut.
It is a step too far, an evolution that hurts more;
It is a pain caused by an alien.
But I cannot cook you in my mouth.
I would have to eat you raw.
So, eat me raw.
My flavor is masked in the heat with others.
I listen carefully to the Onion.
I think about what it means to live,
Being peeled and sliced,
Every layer feeling the force of destiny.
We are all swallowed by the Universe.
Do you want to be bit or cut?
Do you want to be bit out little by little, slowly savored
Or cut quickly and cooked?
Does it even really matter?
The size of the Onion matters.
The bigger you are, the more bites it will take
To consume you.
Mass and volume are directly proportional
To pain.
How much pain will be in your process?
I then ask the Onion,
Would you have chosen me to eat you?
And the Onion says,
I do not have a choice,
Just like you do not have a choice
To be devoured by the Universe.
Well then, change my mind,
I implore the Onion.
I have only cut you; you are not
Yet swallowed.
The Onion answered, I would rather
You have me,
Than rot.
So, thank you.
I consume the Onion,
And cry anyways;
The Universe cries
Anyways.