Riding a Wild Horse

How do I describe trauma from the inside.

How do I stare that darkness, how do untangle the confusion, how do I speak to the unspeakable.

All I know to do is write to spaces between fragmented memory and sense of deep loss with injustice.

I will write to the silence of trauma, into the screaming of the endless torturing of the prostituted.

I will write from the beating of my heart, from ice-cold emotions of the tortured, from a place where my writing is bloodstained.

I will write as a witness, as speaker of truths that so many want never seen or heard.

I write for I cannot save or end the pain and injustice for my prostituted self, but I can give some language to record her truths.

So I turn on Spotify with special selection of blues, soul and rock ‘n’ roll and I will write to those spaces that punters, sex trade lobby and profiteers want never to be known.

I will speak direct with poetry to my trauma and what and who formed it.

Trauma is a slow killer, but at the same it drives creation and desire to live long and hard enough to have its realities seen and known.

Trauma is confusing, but it always has reason to exist.

Trauma is invisible pain leading to real physical pain whilst always just being a distant memory of how that pain was placed there.

To live inside extreme complex trauma is always have a rope round your neck preventing access to complete freedom, but as a wild horse never giving up the fight to be rid of that rope.

Tthat is the tip of the ice-berg want it is to exit prostitution and to be living inside trauma.

There is no thing as harm-free ways to be prostituted.

The vast majority of the prostituted enter the sex trade from a place of deep vulnerability, or a place where they can manipulated into prostituted.

There is little or no evidence of free choice to enter and do prostitution long-term.

I was upper middle-class, white and from a background of deep privilege, only I was easy prey for the sex trade.

I was made numb by previous sexual and mental abuse.

I thought  I was nothing but sex goods as porn and abuse was my reality.

I thought pain was love, and sadist sex was all I made for.

To enter prostitution was inevitable, trauma comes from seeing and knowing that truth in every cell of my body.

Trauma is knowing and feeling who and what punters are and will always be.

It seeing their cold eyes, as the knowledge that no punter will allow any prostitution the right and dignity to be fully human.

It is his choice and entitlement that create the prostituted as sexual living porn goods to consume and throw away.

All punters hate the prostituted, al punters know it is violence, all punters don’t see the prostitute as a human.

So it is the norm to rape, torture and murder as a punter.

All long-term prostituted women are a living map of that male hate, entitlement and violence – I am just a tiny example.

I could on and on about what was done to me – but more important are the silences and agony of how violence was so common it all became one huge nightmare.

I was raped so often it almost became nothing.

Rape as rape, that is penis in vagina was of no importance, coz mostly it was a relief or distraction from the rest that porn teaches punters to do.

I was tortured not raped.

I was in constant fear of being killed by “accident”or murdered.

The sexual violence placed inside my body was meant to so horrific I could never find words to fit it.

That is why I am a writer – to discover those words.

Nothing can be allowed unspeakable – we must never give our oppressors that much power.

I use poetical prose to break that forced silence.


This is dedicated to all exited friends.


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