Red is always associated with prostitution – but red is the colour of blood, red should be the colour of stop, red is colour when squeezing your closed in terror.
In the glamour view of the sex trade, red becomes a light showing men where they pay to rape, pay to torture.
Red light haunts my dreams, red light send pain of memory into all cells of my body.
I need red to be the colour of revolution, the colour of hope – the colour that put a stop sign to end the sex trade.
But in this present, and for the entire history of prostitution, red is the colour of death, hate and agony.
Red is the split blood as punters rape, hit, rip into the prostituted.
Red are the fresh bruises that all the prostituted carry, but ignore for hope is forgotten.
Red is the anger and hate that every punter brings with him as he buys the prostituted.
Red is self-harming done to forced back humanity, when being a sex doll is all that can be known.
Red is the colour of losing hope, drowning but never dying.
Red is the surroundings when all that is know is torture, rape and a longing for death.
Red is the colour of death.