I am feeling lost, and keep waiting to cry.
I am an atheist, but it feels like my spirit crying.
I wake to my tears, I move through day-to-day in my tears.
Tears long hidden – tears that land into my stomach and still there frozen.
Tears of finding myself.
Tears of not understanding the route home.
Tears that know too much pain, too many ways to torture a prostitute, tears of a body remembering what no-one should know.
These tears make me believe myself.
These tears are giving me back a faith.
I am confused – not understanding how to be truly human.
I am confused by the simple ways to stay alive without constant reminders of a hell I have left.
I am confused by how it has been decided little real harm is done to the prostituted – when rape is a crime, torture is a crime, lack of freedom is a crime, murder is a crime – but nothing when done to the prostituted.
I am confused by the acceptance of the term “sex worker”, making male violence ok – when the same people who say sex work, will fight to end rape and domestic violence.
I am confused to come away from the sex trade, only to find I will be treated as a sub-human.
This confusion is the backbone of my fight for real change.
That confusion fuels my faith.
I am hurting from a past never forgotten, a present of fighting to stay standing up, and a future that may be unreachable but so worth having.
I am hurting from having penises, objects, hands and mouths polluting all my body. Leaving no hole unfilled, no cell not invaded.
I am hurting from a past no-one should know – a past made of gang-rapes, a past made of being alone with men who see nothing but an object to destroy, a past of wanting to die but fighting to stay alive.
I am hurting even now as my body sick up knowledge it can not hold, but must know to regain some kind of humanity.
I am hurting at the exhaustion of carrying extreme trauma – carrying so much poison those bastards put into me.
I am hurting as I dream into a future with no sex trade, a future where prostitution has become forgotten, only remember in order to never make that mistake again. I hurt knowing that is always beyond my reach.
My hurt is vital to my knowledge of my truths.
My truths feed my faith.
My faith is strengthen not weaken by the truths inside my hurting.
This prose-poem is prayer to whatever is my spirit is.
The prayer of an atheist is an odd concept, but I am praying to push my spirit into never giving up when pain, grief and confusion is saying – Stop.
My prayer is entering where words have little or no meaning.
My prayer is sending slow and calm healing to all the pain and terror that punters put into me.
My prayer rises from the deep grief sunken into my stomach, my prayer eases the constant pain inside my throat, my prayer reminds my heart is can be mended.
My prayer reaches to my teenage soul, my broken twenties – my prayer hold those times without judgement, without frustration – only with love that refuses to let go.
My atheist prayer is a gift and a prize for somehow staying alive.
So as in my love of Northern Soul –
I will Keep the Faith.