No Words For It

I think I was internally trafficked.

Only I have not got the words to fit what happened to me, just the confusion, just the grief – and just the memories of no hope.

I know I was under-aged, I know I had too much violent sex with nameless faceless men, and I know money was being made off me.

But no-one give me words.

No-one said prostitution, no-one said I was trapped, no-one spoke to my reality.

Mostly there was no words – rape in silence, near-death in silence, and getting thrown away in silence.

Words meant nothing – except to please some punter, to pretend I felt nothing, to say the language of toughness.

Words could not express how broken I was, and how each punters smashed me into a million pieces.

What language fits that?

I write this from the centre of my grief for my teenage soul – I write this for all the lost girls who are internally trafficked.

I know how it feels to want to believe that you are loved by men who only used as trash, men who see money but never that you are human.

I know being that lost and that desperate just for human touch, for small moments of kindness.

I was that teenager who accepted gifts, only listen to flattery – giving out sex to sadist men was blocked out.

I was that teenager that was ignored, ridiculed or made invisible when turning for help – so I fall back into silence and return to the only world I knew.

I was that teenager who was hard and swore at anyone who appear too normal – I refuse to hear or know the crying hurting teenage soul wanting everything to end.

I was that teenager who became unrapeable – what words are there for that?

I was that girl who was gang-raped and no-one intervened.

I was that girl who was moved from city to city – call an escort, named as girlfriend material, inside clubs that never mentioned prostitution.

I was that girl who punter paid to imagine incest-porn on, to do extreme sadist sex on – to be throwaway so all damage is of no importance.

I was that girl who cannot be human – I was a sex robot, I was invisible, I was the living dead, I was nothing.

I was that girl you refuse to know or open your heart to – the girl who must have built her own coffin.

There are no words for being that girl.

Only a grief that only can mend if no other girl has to live that living death.

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