Truth Paints

Truth paints a picture of innocence.

Kaylee puts on her face, night after night. She paints on shades of red, bronze, and blue. An epitome of the lowest, mothers shield their children's eyes when they see her lurking in corners. As the lights change, she stays. She doesn't move as they switch from red, to gold, to green, and back again. Metal and concrete are the materials used to create her urban castle, and her kingdom is all the city. Cigarette smoke and car exhaust replace her oxygen, and she inhales each with a renewed sense of purpose each time.
She bats her eyes at passing Johns, calling them to her, trying to create her living. They come when they are called, and Kaylee knows this. She tells them all about the disgusting animals they are, then leaves them with more money than she had before. They leave with smiles on their faces, their pockets lighter and their hearts heavier. They go home to their wives and their children, and tell them they had to stay late at the office, deadlines. Deadlines are their excuse. Deadlines. Kaylee was one of those children.
Kaylee's absent father came home at midnight each night. He always smelt like Dior perfume, sweat, and pot. Her mother, in her ignorant coma, slept through each of these late night homecomings. In the morning she kissed him on the forehead and made him coffee, two cream one sugar. That's what he called her. Sugar. Kaylee knew this was all a lie. She saw the distant look enter his eyes when he turned away. She hated him. She hated that man.
So when an offer arose in high school, she felt she had to take it. There was no doubts, no questions in her mind. She left her small southwestern town in favour of big city L.A. She felt free when she danced around cold steel poles. She felt vindicated. Though she knew this was twisted, she continued to do it. She didn't care.
She still doesn't. Every time she turns a trick, she tells them. She tells them about her life story. They don't care, they want only one thing. She gives them this.
Pretty in her little shorts made of faded denim. Pretty in lacy white stockings, in a plain white blouse. They look pretty in the back seat of a car. They look pretty on the floor of dive bar bathroom. They look pretty on the cold ground in a back alley. When they're gone, so is she. In mind.
And she still is. She just doesn't know.