how to cut an onion like Gordon Ramsey (the caveat of drunken conversation)

it's a month and some change since you tried to crack me open. I almost let you, but five shots, two cigarettes, and one blunt wasn't enough to get me out of my skin. you pulled at my fault lines and I shook with your head pressed to the back of my neck, my arm bent and aching trying to pull you closer, closer, closer.

you don't remember, but I asked if you were afraid of me. you don't remember, but I asked if you were lonely. you don't remember, but I told you about my dad. 

you don't remember, but I told you my name.

sometimes, I feel like the aftermath of those magic tricks; the ones with the girls who lay still and pretty with big smiles on their faces as they're split in two. I felt that jagged saw tear through my stomach for two weeks after you held me so tight our bodies could have fused. I felt my flesh finally detach as you repeated every single question that I had answered that first night. I watched your shame as I answered each with a teasing smile, one I prayed was wide enough to cover my embarrassment.

six shots, two glasses of wine, and one blunt makes me a permanent stranger to you. 

one cherry starburst, and I remember your middle name.