I'll give you a clue

It’s a deadly game, but taking part

is not optional, I’m afraid. Your

character may vary, minutely or utterly

day to day. You think you’re Miss

Scarlett, but while you slept, Reverend

Green crept into your body, animated

your soul with his own particular blend

of doubt and mistaken belief. You wake

With white hair, and a sense that the past

is replaying itself, has caught up to you,

overtaken, in fact, the same game, only

this time it’s different players or the same faces

in new combinations. Did you dream

your uncle’s face on the cook’s body,

or was it a trick of the light? Who do you

love, anymore, why does everyone look

like you? Attack someone, smear their make-up

obliterate the grease paint, look underneath. Yes,

the mouth is familiar, it tilts the same way yours does

it’s like looking in a mirror, but you can’t tell

who is holding the gun anymore, nor why

it’s smoking, and whether the hole in your chest

is heart shaped, whether the man with the knife

has just saved your life, or is about to take it.