“We hate all punters. To survive we pretended to be happy and in control.”
How do we make prostitution real to the non-prostituted?
How do words fit our hell, our exhaustion, our everyday terrors, our pain in all our bodies?
How do you say or write with a clear mind and speak true to that void?
I feel I write this blog exploring that, and always feeling always the essence of what it is to be prostituted is out of reach.
Words mean nothing when speaking to the heart of torture, heart of isolation, heart of knowing what it is to made sub-human.
I know I write and speak out – I know I have to repeat over and over and over words that may touch that heart of darkness.
I also know the more words I use, the more distance I make between my memories of hell and my role as an exited woman now.
I want to find some language that fits those memories…
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