There is a Silence In Me

This post is for the spaces in me that I try to bury, but grabs my throat till I choke, that make my guts have a sickness that cannot escape.

This post is written for the centre of my prostitution – for my centre is just a common experience for millions of the prostituted.

I am unique, but also part of a group whose suffering is made invisible.

I speak for my prostituted self, I speak to all those that were lost, and mostly I speak because I want no wastage of the lives of the prostituted.

I speak from and to desperation, I speak to find my righteous rage, I speak through the pain of knowing the unbearable truth – I speak towards a justice that comes finding I am no longer dead.

I speak to end the endless myths that prostitution can and will be made safe, or at least safe enough for the profiteers to prosper, safe enough that punters can continue their violence with no consequences.

I speak because my truths and memories tell me no more of this shit – enough is enough.

My spur is knowing the violence done to me was made normal, my spur is to give some voice to say those who died or disappeared mattered.

My spur is increase each some idiot said – oh, we can never get rid of prostitution, it has always been with us.

The idiots that say that – never say don’t do anything about murder, it always been with us, don’t do anything about child rape, that has always been with us.

No, instead they make a special category for prostitution.

They invent that is must be a job – a dirty, nasty and job – but a job.

That by magic make prostitution ok, that by magic put a veil over all the male violence done to the prostituted, that by magic means that all prostitutes must have chosen their lifestyles.

Call a prostitute a sex worker – and all her past disappears, all her future becomes unimportant, all the pain put into her body and mind by punters and the sex trade is made to vanish.

Call a prostitute a sex worker, and when violence becomes her norm, you blames her for not reading body language of the punters, for not negotiating with the punter, for being too emotionally damaged for the work.

Call a prostitute a sex worker – and sleight of hand you makes the cause of the violence vanish.

You make sure no-one sees or fully knows, it is always the punter that makes the choice to be violent or not.

It is always the fault of the structure of the sex trade that makes all the prostituted into goods with no human rights.

In that environment, no prostitute can know full safety, full dignity or even be allowed to be fully human.

To be made goods, is to know you are made unrapable, to know that all tortures will become your norm, and as part of the prostituted class to know you may be dead before you are 27.

To be lucky enough to exit that world is a gift – and in surviving by whatever means we had, we must remember, we must speak to our truths, and we must be part of a real change for all the prostituted class.


2 responses to “There is a Silence In Me

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