Crying to Nothing

This is a prose-poem to the depths of my trauma, depths of my grief. It is a reaching to the place where words are destroyed.

I dedicate to all the amazing women struggling to find a voice, and those who give them space and time to speak and be heard.


Maybe when I born I cried.

But soon, too soon, I knew not to cry.

Not to cry if I cut my knee open, with yellow poison coming out of it. Not to cry as boys punch me in the belly. Not to cry as my sister went to other friends.


Never to cry as my Mum turn out the light, ignores my wanting her.


I knew never ever to cry as my stepdad reaching into me, making me wet, making pain enter every part of me.

What’s the point of crying.

No-one comes.

No-one cares.

I just cry to nothing.

I don’t cry as I see stuff I won’t know.

I see bodies stuff with objects in what must be holes, I see pain their eyes.

I have seen death – but I am told they are alive. I see fear – but I am told it is fun.

I see my future. I say nothing.

I don’t cry.

What’s the point.

I just be crying to nothing.

And with hindsight, I think I should have cried when I prostituted.

It is obvious to cry at torture, at such pain. To cry when confused. To cry as some means of protection.

Hindsight is great, it makes everything so clean and simple.

Hindsight is a delusion to add guilt onto the pain.

I did not cry as a prostitute. Thank god – crying may have killed me.

I had shock stopping my tears.

Shock that men could dream, would plan, can torture without any remorse or shame, can see and hear porn and then do it real women and girls.

Shock that my mind and body got used to the unspeakable, the unacceptable, the things that we choose to imagine cannot happen.

I got used to torture, used to being a porn-toy, used to knowing I was not human, used to being so dead inside that tears could never exist.

I became the whore.

Shock that I lost hope, lost remembering those who loved me, lost my essence, lost being inside popular culture.

As nothing, I could belong to anything that spoke of life, dreams of a future, imagine that I have a worth.

I was the whore – my only future was more fucking, more torture and hopefully death.

How the hell do you cry in that world.


Crying makes the johns hurt you more.


Crying makes the managers laugh.


Crying is just to nothing.

But – but

Now I have forgotten how to cry.

I lose those I loved deeply.

I cannot cry.

I have in my body the constant of endless rapes, endless tortures, endless hate and endless words making me nothing.

I cannot cry.

I want tears, I want relief, I want to know that I am human.

How can I be human if I cannot cry.

But always I afraid I will just cry to nothing.

How can I know that my tears have meaning.

Tell it there is more than a void.

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