I wondered today whether I'd made it all up and if we make it all up, then why can't we un-make it? I thought about the poet and how she can use words to make things up and hide behind them so that only those who are known and who know will understand them.
I feel the itch of hair, too much of it, on my neck. I don't have time to get it cut, but I will have my eyebrows waxed this morning. Sometimes it feels as if my eyebrows are the last, perfect thing, an arch, a bridge, from there to here.