Rebecca Mott, who speaks for us when we can not.
I have very ill for many reasons, and have unable to write.
Now with great force, I will try to get to the centre of what is blocking me, what is sending sickness into my soul.
My soul is being slowly eaten alive.
It is mainly coming at me from two place.
The careless and callous use of language when so-called supporters speak about the sex trade.
And the lack of understanding of the depth and commonness of internal trafficking.
Both these are hurting me beyond pain, making me speechless, making me wanting to scream, making me apathetic as too much triggers me, making me thinking of ripping heads off of the so-called supporters.
My soul is a howling wolf, my soul is a silent stone statue of an unknown warrior, my soul is the wind in the moors, my soul is that pain which has forgotten where is came…
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