text: My house smells like onions It smells like this because of my father's culturally intensive nachos from last night. The smell isn't the stench of old liquor, spilled after one (a few) too many shots. My nose doesn't sting from the smell of the vodka being sweat out of my dad's pores after a long night of drinking and sex, trying to pretend he's still twenty. My nose stings, because of the onions. There's a mess in the kitchen. Broken glass. Oven mitts. Cooking trays. Empty bottles. Onion skins. My eyes aren't burning because of the tears of my grandmother that cut me to my soul, because more often than not I'm the one who caused them. My eyes are burning, because of the onions. The dogs are cowering in the corner. Shaking. Huddled together for warmth and safety, two things in short supply in this house that was once a home. My mouth doesn't have a sour taste because of the odd mix of hate, pity, regret, rage, sadness and love I constantly take in and put out, like an old man desperately sucking on his oxygen tank, not wanting his time to be up. The sour taste, is because of the onions. My father is asleep in the chair. Slumped over in his too small leather jacket, cap from the patient's grower lounge about to fall off his head. The smell of onions on his skin. I'm not crying because of the screaming, the holes being punched in walls, the nights we go hungry, the false love. I'm crying, because of the onions. It's always the onions.