Prostitutes and the rape Culture

Do you remember me?

Do you remember the way you pulled at my hair?

Bit my shoulders

Thighs

Legs

The way you hit me

Leaving marks of yourself over me

The way you flung money on my face

Forcing yourself on me,

Even when I was begging,

PLEADING

For you to stop.

The way you screamed

“Work harder you Trull!

I didn’t waste money for you to stop.”

 

I

Am the girl

From the Red Room of The Jade House.

I

Am the wench

Who is raped everyday

But,

The Society says

“It’s all for the easy money.”

I

Am the story

Of forty-two million sex toys

Behind the Curtain-less Doors Of Pleasure For Men:

WE

Are just some toys

That men borrow.

Like rental cars.

WE

Are the colors

The Society talk about

In hushed voices

On the corners of deserted streets:

The clothes you never wore

Because they weren’t good enough.

WE

Are the succubuses

Of every man’s dream

We are Pleasure

Lust

Money

And

Sin

 

BUT

We die a bit everyday.

We’ve felt

Seen

And heard pain

MORE than anyone.

Yet,

NO-ONE holds a candle march

When one of us is raped

Because

“It’s all for the easy money”

Isn’t it?

WE are the Strippers, the Prostitutes, the Sex-slaves:

The Nightmares you wish to never have;

We

ARE THE UNSHED TEARS OF A FORGOTTEN PAST.

Do you remember me now?

 

 

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