Memories Don’t Kill – But It Would Nice If They Could

I have many memories of punters and sex trade profiteers who I wish I could just kill.

I am not a violent person – but coming away from the coldness of the sex trade has fill my mind with too many violent thoughts – or what other may class as fantasies.

I was fed into a machine-world where violence was my norm, where numbing out fear and pain was my norm.

I was fed into that machine-world until I was more than disassociated, more than dead from hope – until I spoke the language of my oppressors and became their living porn-doll.

I was alive – but had no will that was not their property.

I was alive – but pain was foreign to me.

I was alive – but saw and knew it was violence through a haze of not wanting to know.

I was made into an ideal prostitute – and all my stuffing had been stolen from me.

I knew the words and sounds that pleased – I could move in the whore-way that pleases – I could do that to the point of near-death over and over, and learnt to just not care.

Caring that there is pain, caring that is rape plain and simple, caring that all tortures is rehearsed in the bodies of the prostituted, caring that those prostitutes who disappear may be murdered, caring that you lost how to be human – that type of caring does kill prostitutes, so being dead is best.

How do you care that it is rape – when there are rapists queuing up to invade your body and mind?

How can feel enough to care – when it never name as rape, as torture or even as abuse, only re-branded as your choice, as one way you manipulate men, as empowerment?

Where is the time and space to care – when every punters fill your head with lies or threats, when sex trade profiteers empty you till you are nothing but goods to be fucked to worn out?

It is a world where the prostituted must be empty to somehow live – it is not life, it is learning to exist by remembering to keep breathing.

I coped by not seeing my reality.

I would not see the dead eyes of so many of the prostituted who stood right by me.

I would not see the faces of all the punters and profiteers.

I would not see the rooms or streets that I was in.

I coped by not hearing my reality.

I would not hear the rapes and tortures of the prostituted in rooms all around me.

I would not hear the endless mental violence that was my norm

I would not hear that I was prostitute, that I was a whore – I had to believe I just had endless men.

I coped by not tasting my reality.

I would not taste the sperm as choked me to near-death.

I would not taste dry terror in the spaces before punters begun.

I would not taste as fists, penises and objects blocked my ability to breathe.

I coped by not smelling my reality.

I would not smell the blood that coming out of me so often.

I would not smell stale beer, sweat and hate on too many punters.

I would not smell fear as I pissed myself when the violence was too much.

I coped by not feeling my reality.

I would not feel the endless pain in my anus.

I would not feel the fists, the objects, the tongues, the teeth, the penises going into every hole in my body.

I would feel being thrown into walls or push head-first into a toilet.

I had no senses – just survival.

No wonder all that was left was to be and speak the language of the oppressor.

No wonder now, I dream in the day and night of killing each and every punter who torture me, and each and every profiteer who sold me into torture.

My revenge is that I remembered – they can never control that.

2 responses to “Memories Don’t Kill – But It Would Nice If They Could

  1. Reblogged this on gigoid and commented:
    Always illuminating, and always moving, here is another piece from rmott62…. She is more than a survivor, she is a strong, beautiful soul….


  2. Wow, powerful. It would be nice if some memories could kill. If it were me, I may want to give punters & pimps a taste of what it feels like to be on the receiving end of their hate. Sometimes to truly under-stand, one must stand-under. Reminds me of the 1991 movie ‘Clearcut’, about logging companies clear-cutting trees and who would not listen to Aboriginal People’s pleas to stop. So one day one “militant” Aboriginal guy had enough, he realized the white men would never get it, so he kidnapped one of them, took him to the forest, and began slowly and calmly skinning him alive to show him what trees feel when they are de-barked. It was both deeply disturbing and extremely powerful.


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