nameless

I have become an unwilling participant on stage.
Not even in my own life.
On display,
constructing props, setting the stage, raising and lowering a curtain, waiting for the other me to arrive, to critique, to write about it later.
Shakespeare said "All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances"
I feel like I'm watching myself play this role.
That I'm not a real part of it, like a dream. Its not being controlled by me.
Sometimes I go out there, out onto the stage and act my own part,
but it's just an act, and the other me is sitting in the audience,
arms crossed, waiting for intermission so she can go to the lobby
and swig her gin.
"Break a leg," she says to me.
But i know she really means, "don't fuck up this time."
She's watching like a hawk,
meanwhile, I'm attempting to quell this wave of nausea
with a dose of what they've handed me to numb the nerve endings.
I wake up and cheer myself on in the mirror
Smile and wave like a delicate princess,
but my reality, my deservingness of these titles have been challenged.
My leading men they face me, and they turn.
They grab the hand of another
and she looks at me with a speck of disgust
How will I get through this act? I have no costume, no makeup, no lighting,
no magic.
Peering out into the dark audience, gripping at this restraint, this skin
no bouquet of flowers lands in front of me as i bow,
no curtain comes down and ends this act.
This is how i get through, half-believing and pretending,
shaking like a small dog, pissing on myself,
Unable to escape the breathy-humid confines of this arena.
Not knowing the script.
Doppelganger, double-entendre.
I step out of the spotlight.