Onions in the Bottom

Down to the onions in the bottom of the salad bowl

I am down to the onions
in the bottom of the salad bowl.
Gone are the sweet, savory topping bits
and honey drizzled dressings
covering rich spinach
and tasty tomatoes and cucumber.

In the bottom of the salad bowl,
life, real life exists,
not as a pleasant experience,
but as the rugged core,
bruised and oft hidden.

Gone are the sweet, savory topping bits,
available to the masses,
to pick at and graze upon
until they have had their fill
of everything I was supposed to be.

And honey drizzled dressings
have given way to blood;
such a poor substitute.
What is left, my marrow?
I scream in bitter loneliness.

Covering rich spinach
makes me the anti-hero,
because I had not enough
strength to be the Popeye,
or any other strong man.

And tasty tomatoes and cucumber
are all gone.
I cling to loneliness alone,
and wish you were here,
to once again help me
to build, to hide, to be.