Into Heart of Darkness

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.

Rebecca Mott

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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