Mending Pieces of My Heart

This week, I have been in deep sorrow.

I have been staring directly at the gaps inside me. Gaps of what was stolen from by years of abuse.

I will write into those spaces and say what I am missing. Write to my heart that smashed up.


I have always chosen not to believe in innocence.

This is a defence mechanism. If I don’t believe in innocence, then I cannot see how young I was when is was snatched from me.

Innocence makes that I was a child. Innocence means I never lead the bastards on.

God, innocence could even mean that my body belong to me. That maybe my body is and was precious.

No, I wrap myself up in the cloak of I was a slut, I wanted pain, I enjoy degradation. I wanted to be nothing but men made me.

I was never innocence – I was sick, I was evil, I was a whore – but I could never be innocent.

If I was innocent, then what was happening was wrong.


I thought sex was love. I thought to prove that love it had to hurt me bad.

That was the lesson my stepdad told me over and over. He shown as he placed hard-core porn in front of me.

He said –

“Sex is pain, I will try to not hurt you bad. But let me have you, coz I love so much.”

As my cunt know pain, as slow terror went in me – I felt his love. And I said nothing to no-one.

As I torture by johns in many and varied ways, I keep searching desperately for love.

I close out so much bad, by choosing only short moments of what I formed into love.

Moments when they spoke to me, not to order me around, not to swear at, not top speak of ways of murdering me. No speaking as if I was a human – asking my interests, saying I was pretty. Speaking not fucking.

It never lasted longer than moments, but I had to clasp those words to my heart. They were never true, they were always a sick game – but one I survived my hell was choosing to take them at their word.

Moments when I held without violent sex, where my hair was stroked, where massage was plain massage without searching to finger me. Moments where I sit without undressing, without any sex – just sit as it was a normal boyfriend.

God, how sad it that. I was living with so much sadistic sex on such a regular basis – that I thought those brief pauses before going back to being tortured were signs of love.

I was desperate for love – so I acted like I didn’t care.


I never understand how give out love if or when I have sex.

I find very easy to give love to friends, but with sex enters love goes.

There is always a part of me that disrespect any person who has sex with me, and then wants love and affection.

I hate to know this, but I see them as weak – and I am afraid I may manipulate them.

Of course, I know this comes from a deep self-hatred.

But self-hate was planted into me by men fucking till my soul died.

I thought I was a whore, thought my whole body was polluted. That when a good person had sex with me, that I would poison them.

I felt my rage as I had sex with good people. I never hurt no-one, but my fear how much I wanted to inflict pain or to control them. I never did anything bad – but always I stop myself by becoming a robot.

The robot I was when I prostituted. Then I could fake good sex, fake I felt love, fake that I felt anything. Then it was ok, if I fake it well that I made it look like I understood love.

When I had just made myself have even more self-hate.


The worse thing of prostitution, is that you lose the ability to dream.

How can dream when do not know how long you will be alive.

How can you dream when all you are is a things to give men fuck-dreams, give men dreams of torture, give men dreams of flesh to profit from – in that world don’t dream.

Dreams kill whores – for dreams makes them see the unreachable, hope and real love.

Whores are made a fantasy, but they are not allowed to fantasised. Hell, they may fantasised of murdering pimps, managers, johns and even those who walked on by.

They may fantasied that no man should ever pay for sex. That there is world we could have, where no man can profiteer from the selling women and girls.

A world where men don’t think sex is masturbating into a living body, but about communication, real love and many times without sex.

Sex should be not the goal, but a bonus from knowing another human being.

That is a dream, whore are refused access to.


I am so upset now, this is yet another beginning.

Just know the real damage of prostitution is that rips out parts of the essence of the whore.

She can and will, if she is lucky enough to exit, gain a better and often fulfilled life.

But there is always a deep hole inside of all that was stolen and smashed to pieces – it can never be repaired.

2 responses to “Mending Pieces of My Heart

  1. I’ve learned so much from reading your blog – but this post affected me like no other. You express things I have felt but have never been able to articulate. I’m sitting here with tears streaming down my face. Thank you.


  2. I am reading about your teenage self, the pain, the missing year, the terror and feel both enraged alongside you and also deeply sad. And I feel a lot of compassion for your 13 year old self and am deeply glad she survived. And I ‘enjoy’ hearing her rage, feeling proud of you that she is allowed to finally have a voice, to rage, to scream and to hear your crying for her. She – you matter to me, and I am grateful for all the writing and talking out about prostitution you are doing. Many thanks


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