It began many years ago,
this peeling away of layers.
At first, I believed myself to be an onion.
For all the tears,
what other truth could be?
I have dried my eyes with pale silk
and wrapped my mouth around
all pleasing manner of decadence
in the painful process of shedding flesh.
But I began to wonder,
What shall remain of me once this stripping is complete?
It was then I noticed the tears had stopped,
the stinging bitterness turned sweet
And I knew a new truth:
I am no onion.
For at my center lay a tender heart,
The best part
of an artichoke.