Filling in the Emptiness

I still find being alone with myself very hard. I am ok in my own flat, but sometimes I cannot leave a crowd without a feeling that I disappear.

It is a legacy from being made into a whore, a legacy from child abuse – a legacy from being nothing but what bastards made me. Leaving me empty.

I have known a void, and however happy, however good company I make – that void is in the depths of my stomach and grasps at my heart.

It is a slow death – only I want to live so hard.

This makes me sick, because I know I fill my life now with so happiness.

Only too often, so often triggers come from nowhere.

I can be with lovely people, having a laugh, feeling calm and like the past is controllable.

Out of nothing jokes on prostitution are told, words saying is so harmless, spoken with ease.

Words that if replace with racial overtones would shut up, and the speaker would be destroyed by others.

Words that say prostitution is allowed to be looked down on, allow there to be  a class of women and girls that we can say are filthy.

Inside jokes I hear my tortures, see the faces of johns seeing me as a piece of shit, smell my cold fear becoming nothing, taste their spit and semen and feel my essence leaving my body.

Hell, it only a joke. So, I have learnt long ago to go empty as others laugh.

I just drink more, and make more jokes, speak more to friends, say turn the music up more.

I cannot reach into that terror and grief that is grabbing my heart.

And it then I terrified to be allow with myself.

Allow with flashbacks, allow with body memories and allow with always having to be so bloody strong.

I want to live in a world where liberals and left-wingers just stop finding prostitution so god-damned funny.

Don’t call it edgy humour, don’t think your jokes are really about empowering prostituted women, don’t you sound like you know anything although about the reality.

Don’t tell those jokes ever.

Not to prove how outrageous you are. Not to show you accept the lifestyle and think it just sex work. Not to place danger in the room.

But, then of course, no prostitute is meant to hear your jokes. And if a prostitute is listening, she has no sense of humour if she not laughing.

How can you laugh when emptiness is making you want to die.

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