My Kind of Creature

Wrapped in several clothes,

Divinely made clothes,

My foolish counterpart thought,

I'm lucky because

I've got to wear it every time,

Every hour, minute, and second.

I can't take it off on my own,

But the day I'm ripped of it,

My light fades to darkness,

My life dissolves into death.

Shedding these clothes comes

With unbearable pain.

I'm stabbed to death,

Even the butcher weeps.

My red blood turns to white.

"O heaven!" I yelled. Yet,

None came to rescue me.

In this manner,

I watched my parents die in front of me,

My friends and colleagues.

We never live long.

We live to die,

We die to be useful.

I don't want to be useful,

But this means I don't want to die.

Inevitably, death is my living.

How sad!

I'm writing this expecting my death.

Soon, I will be stabbed till my blood

Is tinted white.

If I go for a less painful death,

It'd be a shameful death.

When I'm rotten,

Then my usefulness is gone.

I won't disagree with my ancestors—

In my horrible death lies my pride.

Are you wondering about my kind of creature?

I'm not strange to you.

You've heard of me

More than a trillion times.

You've bought me several times.

You've used me several times.

The only thing you aren't familiar with

Is my description.

I'm an onion,

My life like that of an onion.

I stand amongst many,

Yet they are nothing but fabric.

I can't chase them away,

And they leave me with a heart in shreds.

Their actions pierce me,

Like a knife through an onion,

Spilling silent tears.

An onion has no use

Until it's cut, torn apart.

I feel useful now that you struck my heart.

My heart is dead,

Shot by you.

Did I fill that vacuum?

Did my suffering satisfy

Some hunger in your hollow soul?

O cursed, my kind of creature!