Vents

She learned from the vents of her heart, through the slits and windows, even doors.
She learned from the muffled sounds of nighttime and the breathless sounds of the following day.

She learned from every person who walked through that life, every time that heart eroded away,
Viens and eyes and beauty and brokeness that gave way to slits of light, and salt, and life.

She learned from heighted arguments thrown in aimless directions, she learned they were cries for help,
The glares of her mother, the glances of her father, prodding until they snaped branches off of her growing mind.

She learned, fighting through the blinds pulled down.

She learned from grasped hands and careful smiles, intringuing whispers and careful praises,
Sheer glass and thick clay, she learned from the desire, and the determination, and the dirt.

She learned from wrists and and collorbones, the round freckle on the smooth shoulder she could not find on herself,
Covered, gaping wounds and secrets she could not know, looming figure's she was not allowed to see.

Through the pretty, empty opening's she learned the most, shading her eyes to see that hidden farthest down,
She learned through the vents of her sister's heart.