This Prostitution

For once, I am not going to make this poetry. I have run away enough and tried to beautify, tried to put reality into writing, making it somewhere a fine painting. Finally, it just is not. A prostitute might be beautiful. She might be serene and subtle or gaudy; she is still a whore. The world looks at her with the same eyes, even if her eyes have that often unexplored vision. But she is justified in the way she thinks, feels, and looks. I am going to make myself one. I feel liberated.

Maybe I'd be better at being a romantic one; as this despondency, the little passion, the greater ecstasy, the melancholy and the breaking pride all crumble and form again, crumble and form again. Oh perhaps, I should stop myself. I am drifting into poetry. Again.

I need to paint myself. But I hope someone looks at me the way they should. A real painting, that walks as much as it talks. Will I find an artist? No, will the artist find me? But I am a prostitute after all, why would he? The artist will find his prostitute, to translate it into his piece of magnificence. He will make love to the painting. They come and go, they rape me through their eyes, their minds and flick me like a piece of dust glimmering in sunlight. I know you are just a client and you know I am the shamed one. You try to look beyond, you steal silent glances, you stop. You stop right at that when you know you're going beyond the line. Abandoning.

And I write. I write about you. Each one of you. The one who made me live, the one who tore me apart, the one who fuelled life, the one who made me love and hate, the one who made me insufficient and the one who made me a statue. I saw you, in my dirty eyes. I saw you.

I ask the artist- could you paint me? This prostitute with million minds and one body? A million loves and one hope? Communicating eyes and expecting hands? I shed to nakedness, down to the soul, I wait.

This one’s for you. Find me.