From Rebecca Mott XX
To write to this blog, I must write to broke – no, smashed up memory.
To truly understand the true horror that is to be prostituted, we must stare with clear eyes into that well of despair.
To remember the realities of being prostituted is to fight wanting to block it all away.
To remember that time is to drown whilst hanging on tight to life.
No wonder to survive, memory is ripped apart.
Now is a time where I am secure and safe enough to piece together that jigsaw of remembering.
There can be no linear ways to remember – no clearness of time, place or even age that I was.
Memory of my prostituted times are inside every cell of my body.
Every day some pain remind me that my body was made into sexual goods.
Every day some pain reminds me that I lost my human rights…
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