The Opiate, Winter Vol. 4
Onion Sandy Wang This is not about how she makes me cry. It's not even about the tender heart, tied to a secret, hidden beneath her white organza dress, unattainable despite my teary efforts. You see—this is about her coming to ripeness in my garden, a full moon rising to the high throne. Indubitably she is the queen's picking, fattened virgin bulb, green stalks soon to flower. Overnight, poignantly and nervously, she drags her robe of white mist in slow waltz, my sweet deb. Come daybreak I will have to take her out of her loam-perfumed boudoir, and marry her off to the gentle yellow bell pepper.
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