Art/Whore

What happened to that job at the corner store? You said you got a job working weekends what happened to that?

I couldn't tell her, so I just brushed it off They didn't need me this week, not enough hours.  The truth however was far, far worse.  No use bothering her with the details.  The way he stared, the places he touched me.  

To be honest, I doubt she'd believe me anyways.  The fact that things like this happen in a nice neighborhood like ours wouldn't even cross her mind I bet.

I walked in on them.  He sat on one of the two swivel chairs, his eyes closed, head laid back and cocked to the side.  His hands fondling her breasts under her shirt.  The money was still clenched in her hand.  I'd seen her before, we talked once.  She was a bubbly and seductive Aries, auburn hair.  She was living out of her car she had said.  Her mom was a meth addict.

Life.  What a fucked up thing it is sometimes.  The things a person sees.  Im grateful that isn't me.  My stomach rumbled and I turned and ran.  You could be a hundred dollars richer.  His words echoed in my head.  As hungry as I was, I couldn't bring myself to ask for the $24 he owed me.  What good is the money if you sell your soul?  We already sell our time to the highest bidder.  Have we stooped so low that nothing is sacred? I'd been there, so I can't judge her or blame her.  I'd known that emptiness where there's nothing you wouldn't do for a price.

That feeling scares me now.  It propels me towards my goals, but the intensity scares me.  Just as feverishly as I want to make something beautiful and leave behind a legacy, I could want money or fame or pretty things.  Once, I did want them that feverishly too.

What do I want now? To do something that suspends imagination.  That changes your perception if only for an hour.  I'd live for it.  Live to create something so cinematically stunning that it makes you forget where you are. I want to share the world in my dreams with someone else.  The place I go to when ugly things become all too real.  

To want anything this badly seems almost a sin.  I might as well be that girl on her knees clenching that hundred dollar bill.  In a sense I am.  Slave to a hidden thing no one else sees or believes in.

It really only makes me art's dirty whore.  Willing to jump when someone says art.