You must arm yourself with expectations of their infirmities, and resolve nobly to forgive them. There's a fist in my brain some mornings, wrapped around a rock. My hand is not cocoon but vise. The difference, she says, between vace and vahze is one of class. Anger's bitter, but we put it on like a silk shawl. No one kills us for ours. If we hated ourselves less, we could shed these skeins. The mirror's a shallow witness, seeing only what we put in front of it. I am not I who see only myself. The writer's depression lifted after she fell and scraped skin off palms and knees. I take examples out of my poems to leave stains at the top. Use the soft side of the sponge to wash off surfaces; the other side only scars.
--28 May 2015