When the Teenage Soul Speaks

I want to reach the part of me, the part I run hard to not see, not feel, not hear, not smell and ever speak of.

I want to have my young adult self to feel safe enough to trust, to cry, to scream and know she is real.

But can I know her when she build walls of steel away from my soul now.


One reason, my teenage soul is screaming for attention, is because I surrounded by words that make no sense.

Ideas that prostitution is a choice, concepts that there a happy place for a whore, views that violence is rare.

All that I see written down, listen to at endless meetings, hear spoken by people I thought I knew.

My teenage soul says nothing, only her stomach and head aches in a rage – her heart breaks with betrayal.

God, god, I thought I had chosen the life.

Chosen to get fuck by so many men that they had no faces, no names, in the end they all looked the same whatever their class, race, age or whether they clean or not.

Chosen to forget I could feel pain, could understand degradation.

I had chosen slammed fear and terror deep inside me, until even I lost it.

Please see me then, and make me see it was no choice for me.

Don’t bloody betray me and all my whore sisters by calling it a choice.

Or if you choose to call it choice, have the dignity and courage to know that is for you, and nothing to do with the reality of whores.


You name it choice for many and usually insulting reasons.

You say whores choose types of sex and sexual violence that they enjoy.

Often these sexual acts you would not do, but being a good feminist, good leftist, good anarchist – being a nice person – you mustn’t judge.

Well, I give you full permission to judge – not to judge the whore – but for christ’s sake judge all those who are buying and selling the whore for sex that puts her in grave danger.

My teenager is screaming at you see me, see all my whore sisters – see our pain, see our desperation, see that your belief in choice is stealing our voices.

For god’s sake, imagine you are who I was, or some of my whore friends.

Imagine us in every cell in your body, then say we had free choice.


Imagine being fucked inside a car, fucked without bothering about protection. Fucked into pain, both in vagina and the anus. Imagine the degradation. Imagine this happens so often you have no feelings. Imagine after you are thrown from a moving car.

Imagine being hard and with hate against some wall, hearing other going by knowing you are a slut.

Imagine being struck in a room with a man who knows he owns you. He can beat you or just talk. He can choose to rape you all night, even keep you for a week or so. He can fuck up your brain with words of love, in and out of violent sex. You are his porn-toy, you have no will or rights.

Imagine that you get extra money for sexual acts that cut up your body, put your cunt into a state of shock, make your mind disappear not wanting to know grief or terror.

Imagine that you are so cut off from feelings that if you see injuries or look into a mirror, you can make no connection.

That is just the tip of the iceberg on what it was to be a whore.

I want you to say that is ok.

Say you would not mind being raped and having no time for reflection, for medical help, for some friendly voice – for it is not rape, it is just the job you have chosen to do – and anyhow there plenty more rapes to come.

Say you don’t mind that your mind, sexual parts and everything that makes you a human are owned by profiteers and johns.

Say you don’t mind that the deal is you just holes to be fucked, bodies to smashed up, minds to be destroyed.

Say you don’t mind you may get murdered or choose to commit suicide.

Say all that with a straight face.

Say that to my teenage whore – I dare you.

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