Onions

my dear friends, i am writing to address a memory of sorts: a lovely barbecue, evening, on the beach. you all brought ingredients to pile on my barbecue. you all brought your onions your palette knives your cutting board and one of you were cutting onions. at the beach. the juices, they pricked pricked my sockets for droplets. oh, it was lovely, the sizzling crackle of veg. and i took my chair, i examined the burns. the sizzles, the pops, how the knife had painted the onions onions! red onions in the sky . it scorched my eyes oh! the taste! and you were all so thrilled to share your creation the meal was fantastic filling for the night, but for days after i couldn't rid myself of onions without cutting them away from my eyes so i vaguely remember in a dream like state, one of you took your palette knife and scooped them out for me. i cried and shook for hours in relief! and, oh! what a time. and, oh. onions.