I knew I was tough – hadn’t I learnt never to cry, didn’t I feel no pain when my step-dad finger-fucked me and eat me out, didn’t I swear when men ask how much – but inside was a terrified and confused child.
I did not show fear, for I had no idea what hell was opening up for me.
I went as cattle goes to a slaughterhouse – with no insight to the future.
I felt I had been chosen, that I was special – that if there was sex it would be quick and then I could go with cash in my pocket.
I had been made ready for prostitution, by sexual and mental abuse since I was 6.
I had learnt how to pleased men when thinking I might be killed.
I had learnt to close down pain, close down fear and be a robot.
I thought I was ready – but incest was just the rehearsal, and a weak rehearsal at that.
I have been resting, running away, watching sports – scared to write, not wanting to know what I know.
Now, though every cell of me is exhausted, and sickness is shadowing my waking time – I will write to my fury, write to my deep grief, and write to my fallen warrior-spirit.
Yes, this may be hard to read, but if you not a survivor of the sex trade, do not use that as excuse to turn.
If you are exited, only read this if you can and it may add something. For I do not write anything exited women do not know and often need to shut down.
This piece may be fragmented, it may seemed non-directed. This piece of writing is a howling at the dark.
All that is that this howling is not just reflected back into me – but is heard and used as a catalyst for radical…
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