Tears Coming At Last

How do I cry about my body being made into a fuck-object.

Yes, I can cry tears of frustration. Tears that burn into my skin.

But it never reaches deeper than outward anger.

I can never reach the depths of my stomach, where my essence lays waiting to be known.

Let me say, how abuse, porn and prostitution made me bury my essence.  Made me me murder my tears.

I write with deep sorrow, so this may not as clear as I would like it. But I need to reach into my essence, and drag out my grief.

I need to live.

I write as a personal record for those who say that the sex trade is relatively harmless. I write the harms done to me coz I know I am one of millions.

My essence was murdered by porn. Yes, I choose the word “murdered” with great care.

Porn made everything that made me into who I should of been give up hope of living.

Porn taught me to accept the unacceptable.

It taught to ignore pain. It taught to think any hole in my body was only there for men to use. It taught me that my mouth was for blow-jobs. It taught my hands were to wank men.

Porn taught me to accept the unacceptable.

Porn taught me to perform as a sex object at most times. Porn taught me that my brain had no purpose.

Porn taught never to cry.

Porn drove me into prostitution.

To separate them out is a lie.

Porn drove me into prostitution.

It give the rules of how to perform so johns would have their fuck-dreams fulfilled. I learnt to let penises chock me, I learnt to let anal sex make me unconscious, I learn to take gang-rapes.

They imagine themselves as porn stars, and my body was fucked close to death for their five minutes of fame.

Porn drove me into prostitution.

I knew to be silent, unless I spoke what johns wanted to hear. I know the noises of faking it may stop a little of the pain. I learn quickly as one to stay alive, was to perform the good whore.

I could never cry, only sometimes if johns got turn on by it. I never cried real tears.

Christ, now, I have almost forgotten that I can cry.

Now my stomach is sick with my past, now my throat cannot breath deep without the memory of their hate and my degradation coming back.

I have had enough.

I want to sob without being so sick.

I cry sorrow to be simple – not always the pain, the terror and the anger going on top.

I want the pureness of grief. Grief that said to my abused self, you deserve these tears, cry please cry.

But my eyes are dry.

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