Insomnia

I have woken up when it is still dark, still little noise.

I listen to classical music and want to write. Sometimes writing can done in a haze, and this is one of those times.

I woke up crying, I woke into a sense I am slowly growing into me. A me I hardly know.

I cry at the grief I am so cut off from my self.

I cry with relief I have the courage and will to not be scare to seek my self.

I cry as I laugh that actually I am not too shabby.

My heart is aching with a pain, a pain that is life.

In this last week I stare directly at some of my deepest terror.

I look at Girlfriend Experience, and named some of the times doing that.

I saw GFE for what it is – it was  not just bad one-night stands, it was not love, it was not being a good escort, it certainly was never a way out.

No, it was a form of slavery.

What else, when the men that had me owned my body.

My body could fuck at anytime, anywhere. My body was theirs to torture, to rape and to throw away when they got bored.

My body survived by refusing to feel, and acting like it did not care.

What else, when the men that had me owned my mind.

My every thought had to fit in with their thoughts, I had to fit to whatever sick porn-fantasy they had.

To survive my mind had to be two steps ahead of them, so I avoided as much hitting and raping as I could.

But a slave is hit and raped for no reason, except to remind her that she is just dirt.

I stare deep into GFE and know it is sick.

I know that and cry.

I have stare deep into how young I was when I made my self dead to my reality.

I was a child – I cut away my soul when I was round 12 or 13.

I died when I knew that my stepdad would have me at anytime, any place, he had me or not have me just depending on his whim.

I died as each Friday night he finger me, eat me out, push his penis down my throat.

I died as he stroke me after or before, saying how much he loved me, that he would never hurt me, that I made him do these things, as he would cry.

I died as I was wandering the street not remembering why I wouldn’t go home, not caring if it was cold or dark . Not giving a fuck.

I died as I realise drink made me not care.

I died as I found it easy to be under-aged in a pub,  pubs where cash was above the law.

I died as I found it was easy to get a bed if you went with any man. Not care what they did.

How can a corpse care.

I died, I died and I was a child.

I was 12, I was 13.

Read that again – read that clear.

I was 12, I was 13.

I enter indoors prostitution as the role I deserved when I was 14 – but I enter already dead.

This week, I have face that I was a child, not some adult who was so damned hard.

The men that had me were child rapists. No exchange of money, no exchange of sex for having a bed for the night, no that I may asked them to be with them – none of that is an excuse.

Those men known, enjoy and got huge power-trip from raping a child – knowing I would never tell, and it was a non-crime fucking another whore.

I never cried then – so I will sure as hell cry now.

And I cry more knowing that the vast majority of prostituted women were made dead as young girls.

I cry that we lived in a world where that has made that invisible.

Maybe I get a little sleep now.

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