I am huge fan of classic soul, it has been the saviour of my life when all else seems pointless.
I am buried inside Motown, Stax, Philly Soul and Northern Soul – in a place where I can write to my lost years but hear hope and joy.
Most of this blog has been written with soul music being turn loud.
I cannot face my personal hell in silence, I need to be in the present when facing the past.
My past was unbearable, close to unspeakable – so inside music I write words that the sex trade and its allies thought would never been known.
Yes, the pen is mightier than sword – that is proven as every exited women writes her truths, write to the conditions of being prostituted, write to blow down the walls of the sex trade.
Our truths are the revolution, ours truths are what I understand hope to be, ours truths comes a place of deep silencing.
To speak out as an exited woman is to become a leader, is to lose fear of others and our environment.
We are speaking to bring down power, we are the witnesses who refuse to be dismissed.
Our truths shine a light on what it is to be prostituted.
My truths are that to be prostituted is be tortured – it is rape, but more than that, it is being battered, but it is more than than, it living with knowing you may die young, but it is more than that.
To be prostituted is to have no skin, to reject inner thoughts, to lose emotions.
To be prostituted, it is to be made into a robot.
A prostituted woman is allowed no memories, no friends, no link to her family, no place in society, no thought of a future.
A prostituted woman is made nothing – nothing but what punters force her to be, nothing but what can be sold for a profit.
That is why all violence done to the prostituted is made nothing.
Nothing is happening to nothing.
Our truths is buried memories of being someone.
Our memories is the silent screaming as we hate the male entitlement that made us into sex goods to buy and sell.
Our memories are the pain we carry in silence – pain as every piece of porn invented is force into our bodies and minds, pain as we should of died but some inner spirit keeps us alive.
Our memories is our silent grief – grief at those we lost, those who just disappear or we know died from lack of hope. Grief at lost years, grief at our los t sexuality, grief that we had ignored for so long.
And our memories is a silent fury – a fury that all women’s lives count expect the prostituted, a fury that all damage done to us is view as the risk of the job, a fury that we are not allowed to feel we were wronged.
This is hard to write, coz I am sick, so I end here.
But listen harder please.