Running in the Desert

I feel them, hairline etchings pressing into me, splitting what was from what is from what might be. The tips of my hair split, too, from how I wrench a comb through every day and every day, and I wonder what all this is for, this combing and smoothing down and the shadow scraped over twin lids.

Why is it called "putting on your face"?  Why can't the face I have be enough?

The others tell me to be quiet, to quit asking so many questions.

So I lace my fingers and settle them into my lap an...