What a day to be cutting onions,
until you cut the flesh instead of the fresh —
revealing, instead of layers, a red substance seeping out.
A slip of the finger is all it takes to get a slit off your finger.
You yelp, stepping back, fumbling for your phone,
and think please no don't banish me don't don't don't don't don't don't please I'm begging you you have to listen
until you cut more than the finger — with thoughts instead of a knife.
You can feel the pain but it isn't from that wound; it's from another; the time she cut
your finger off as punishment
for the machines.
