The wound on my leg reminds me of a vagina

In justification of the subject designated to this particularly uneventful message:

How the bleeding wound and the velvet skin ripped open into a perfect V, reminded me of an oyster shell. As the white pulp seeped through the mouth, tiny drops of diamond reminded me of a lone woman masturbating in her dead husband’s bed. I used a cotton ball to dab the blood which stained my white shorts and left a mistresses’ lipstick marks through the transparent skin of cloth. A seductive smile. A crimson tainted smile. The blood collected into an eyeball and I saw the reflection of a woman in labor. The pink walls of her innards expanding to let the passage of life flow within her, from her, through her. The pain quivered in my bones, much like the casual touch of the woman you love, the side glance of a friend you once kissed in the school yard, the laugh of a father who belittles your every achievement, the nonchalance of the mother who betrayed your innocence, and much like the lies you told as a child which eventually ate away your soul.

It’s funny how everything we are and everything we will be is only a mirage of everything we hoped to be.

Hence the resemblance. Do you see it?