THE ART & POETRY OF TRAFFICKED CHILDREN: SURVIVAL, 2013

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They do what they do, because they can. They do not have to hurt one more boy. Not one. We can stand up to these people. They are not courageous individuals. They are always poised to run.

 

I AM, a poem by Jose

I am my mother's cunt.

I am that cunt's empty house.

I got nothing at Xmas.

I am coming out of her cunt to escape her.

But she will not leave me alone.

She is drunk asleep.

She is drunk asleep.

I do not want her boyfriend to find me.

If they find me I will kill myself.

I will not go back.

I do not care what a court says.

I will not go back.

Her boyfriend gave me HIV.

Fuck all of them.

They made me fuck her.

I fucked my own mother.

Let her be alone in her empty house.

I hope that cunt dies.

I will kill myself.

I will prove it.

 

Rough Whore Blues, a poem by Dane

we were the only mother and son team in our building

i would fuck her and men would watch

jacking off

and we would

have to swear we were really related

and we would speedball

mama and i and i would do some tricks on the side

but no holding out on mama she knew where i lived

in her pussy and her twat so then i started getting

public hair so she shaved me cuz shaved was what

those tricks wanted

and i do not think of myself as no

whore but i thoughta her one and she owed money

to a dealer fuckingshit so he paid me to beat the cunt

off that bitch

i hated her and her fucking needles and

her crispy creams was all we ever had you go live

in them projects you think it’s so funny boy i knock

your motherfucking teeth out your head

i hated that bitch

but men would pay us to watch me beat her up and

i beat her until that rough fucking whore turned

blue and if they paid me skank i’ll beat on you

so that is why i am a loser punk cutter dope bitch

who wants to die

with this disease please god i am so tired no

speedball can do me right

i have been sober a week and i hate it soaking

this chill in a thousand blankets

no one can get to me or hurt me

wrapped up in a thousand blankets

 

Tornado warnings are to be expected, a poem by Carolyn Srygley-Moore

It's not a day to die, except those small deaths

like sewing needles climbing cells of the outer

pink slough of skin.

 

                          I will not look in the glass today

except to play the mirror game with a street person

who peels his apple in a long green curl.

 

I will not look in the glass today

except to see part of the earth fall into the sea

& know that tunnel of New York City

 

is part of me.      It's not a day to die, except

those sudden deaths, like confronting a red fox

on a hurried walk through the dark, the gifted

dark, & meeting him eye to eye           & seeing

him walk a little backward through the fog

to give you room to pass.         Doesn't happen

 

often, the wild making room for the human, except

with bulldozers & masked trenches. Doesn't

happen often.          The red fox goes his own way.

 

There are the young to protect, protect, protect.

 

Ah, tornado warnings are to be expected.

The brave or the foolish enter the streets anyway,

red scarves wrapped round their hair like

a fortune teller, counting the pulse of clouds,

counting the pulse of a formidabley backing-down sun.

 

A small death, a mote of dust, golden.

A small death, the slit vein of daylight, globular, red.

 

I hang a cloth over all the glass in the house

dodging the truth, the rue. Dodging the hangedman's gaze.

The horizon is a cold place to have a home.

The notched cliffs are made of bone.



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