By: Brenna Smith


This papery, smooth, imperfect layer

Cannot be the true one. I take it in my hand

And peel away every bit. It comes off,

Like bad habits,

In irregular pieces-

A little at a time.


Now here is a moist

And shiny layer; I want to believe it

Is the true one. But wait-

Beneath it dwells

Another- just the same, smaller.



Grows gradually smaller

As you approach the



And here I have it,

At last

The last one.


A white, somewhat round thing, with the appearance of a seed, but fruitless.

Doubtless it was buried so deep to hide the shame of uselessness.


You cannot put an onion back together.


Brenna Smith is a writer, musician, and high school student from Tyler, Texas. She enjoys studying foreign languages, cooking Asian food, writing stories and poems on her 1917 Corona typewriter, performing competitively on the flute and piano, spending time with her family, and reading and discussing good books. She is currently writing the first draft of a novel she began in November 2015.