That stage is only a platform she stands upon, the audience, meer shadows that occupy otherwise empty chairs.
One more glance in the mirror, and another flush of rouge, no matter how much make-up she puts on her eyes stay the same. Hazel.
Each part she plays, each scene she lives, and each line she recites creates the illusion of a new character.
The lights show her powedered skin, her drawn on expressions and her rouge lips but they can never catch the only color that is really her.
One more standing ovation, and another applause from a stranger, no matter how many costume changes she has, her eyes stay the same. Hazel.
But only when she slips into the skin of another and only when she walks onto the stage does she find who she is.
To the shadows and figures and countless voyeurs that live under the lights she is their character, their starlet in their own private show.
One more rose, and another bow, no matter how many times she sees her eyes in the reflection she isn't who she really is until the curtain call. Hazel.
She will be anyone you want to see, and no one unless she wants to.
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