I met this guy once. Or twice. I don’t remember when, but I think I already saw him before. I think he was there in the subway with me. He might have been in Mcdonald’s while I ordered the cheeseburger. He was in my class back in high school. He was art.
That was his name. Art.
I never really believed in “love at first sight”, but I was sure that wherever I looked, I would see him there. He was love. I was in love. I loved him, the essence of who he was; art. Despite this, our relationship was that of a stalker and the stalkee. I was the stalker.
I did my best to get art to love me. However, he never really did. Slowly, I moved up the ranks. I went from stranger, to acquaintances, to friends, to good friends. Currently, I’m stuck, and I don’t know how to get him to like me. His relationship with others seem to be more romantic, erotic. Art is a sexual being, doing “it” with whoever he pleases. Squirting paint, cum- all over their minds. I still try my best to get a taste of his cum, but I know that I-compared to others-am less loved by him. One day, I’ll suck it all in; but now, I’ll just sleep through this torture. The torture of being less loved for this polygamy of art hurts. Though he keeps my soul sane.
One day he’ll love me as how he loves others. One day, I’ll find my self-worth. He’ll caress my hands as we sit on the subway train. He’ll feel my lips as I eat at Mcdonald’s. He’ll teach me love and art in class. Art will love me, but now, he loves other people. No one knows, but I’m terrified that maybe I won’t be good enough for him. My relationship with art might not—might never be as good as his relationship with others.
I am so scared. For my art.