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Is It An Act

Sometimes I wonder about actors
after the curtain hushed closed
and the stage is a scuffed black mirror
after they pull off the fraying wig and the costume with someone else’s sweatstains in the armpits
and swipe away sweet powder
and beetle-black lines

Do they go home
to a shabby apartment
(where else would an actor live?)
and cry clear tributaries in
the dingy yellow light
They can’t remember who they are?
hold tightly to themselves
because they may or may not be


Have you said so many lines that they’ve started to tattoo on your life-weathered skin?
Have you stopped eating because the admiration tastes better?

Do you fall in and out of love every night?

Is there a singular you
Or are you an amalgam
Sewn together by the numberless bolded monikers?
Are you the canvas?