There comes a day - at least once a month I want to open my wrists like windows painted shut

ventilate my veins & stain the window pane
the anguish will like red rain...
and I will write my name on the window ... like when I was a child
and gaze outside of myself for a while
pondering at the misconception of cliche's told

... is obvious
not eyes,
rather open veins
are the windows to the soul