A wise man once told me we are like onion bulbs. He said new beginnings are life’s way of shedding the arid rot of outer skins for the unscathed one beneath.


“Every new beginning is a chance to heal.” he says.


I have stood under every January rain since. I have soaked my clothes with the hardness of the falling water and saltiness of my own burning tears. I have dug my nails into my skin till it bled as I ripped clothes off my body. I have screamed at the top of my lungs baring my naked soul to the clatter of water pelting against rooftop. But it hasn’t healed me. It never has.