Chito Reynoso was himself trafficked, and this is a GIF image he has created that unfolds — like a story does — what the conditions look like that allow the trafficking itself to exist. 

I hated this life. They would fuck me and then beat me up. There was no food. Sometimes I would carry the drugs from the boats to the dealers on my bike. I was 8 years old. I did things in movies they made. I never saw no movie of me doing that stuff. There was no school. Only rich kids went to school. No one I knew could read. I am getting good at it. When you thought you finally had a frend then that new frend they would sell you to. Nobody is nobodys frend. I stole some of the drugs I carried around on my bike. They want to kill me. If I go back they will kill me for steling the drugs. I was going to sell them. I never did have no frend. Sept one boy who I loved. Then he fucked me to. I never want no more to get fucked again. That is how I got hiv. If I had to go back then I would have no pills like I do now cuz there was no pills for hiv there. If I had to go back then men would fuck me again and I would have to do it to earn them men who bout me money. But the drug ones will just shoot me like it was a lesson to the other boys. Yo no soy ninguna lección para besar mi culo. I am sad about my life. I wish no woman had born me. She born me then she sold me then I did not know her no more. I slept in streets. I been bout and sold so many times I do not know who owns me no more. I got sick. They would still fuck me. Nobody would stop fucking me till I would be dead. I still run from cops if I see one. I was in detenshun 1 time. They fucked me day and night in there. I sad to them that I had the hiv but they did not care. The hole land was fucking me now. I did wanted to die a lot. I am not sick no more but unless I do not have pills but now I have pills. I would like to put this GIF in show me your life because it should not all be video but a gif will tell a story about when you see it move. No quiero volver. Me mataría.


Los niños víctimas de la trata de Ciudad Juárez son putas

Juarez Oscuridad

Juegos que jugamos. Los blancos no pueden jugar. Por unos muchachos latinos. Podemos jugar.

EDITORIAL NOTE: I played this game with a few of them, and every now and then a car would pull up out back (do not ask me how they knew it was there because I do not get that part of it, the logistics that change daily), and one of the boys would leave, going down that long, silent hallway to the door, and go get in the car. The car obviously drives away. It would return. The boy comes back into the room ready to play and no one bats an eye. The distinctions are there. Yet they as kids are not distinctions. They’re still human beings.

One boy returns to the room we are in, which is not unlike the rooms in the video, dark, labyrinthine, and perhaps related to some kind of violent struggle or crossing some imaginary border underneath the ground that exists somewhere not subterranean. Somewhere above the ground. While below the ground, there’s an entire market economy in sex trafficking, and I am not sure that this thing around forcing an individual to sell his or her body does not rob the individual who is not doing this of their own volition of something. Something difficult to define, but something that is the root cause of something else that has grown quite numb.

It’s a choice. Some could run away. Some will.

Some know how to exploit just about any situation. And this is fine. These are the boys who will figure out how to make video content. They are doing it all the time. They are learning about things like language, and the power of language. Video is simply the tool that supplies the motivation. It not exactly like Typical School Anywhere does much for them. That environment is typically intolerant.


MI CIUDAD, MI SER by Richaud Caillon (Music gifted by BILL ORTIZ)

Richaud is retracing his victim-sex-trafficking steps from where he was first trafficked 2 US.

THE THINGS THEY RUN FROM/ they run from most authority/ giving it the finger you can suck on their middle fingers if you feel so inclined to taste someone’s asshole where the finger lives or gets inserted beyond contempt they run and run/ they run from cops/ cops will arrest them/ they run from juvenile facilities that would warehouse them/ they pack their bag and go/ they run from eye contact as it terrifies them/ they run from their pasts lives and their second selves/ they do not run from high tide or whatever or whoever they might need in the middle of the night/ they are always running/ from what and to where has become quite irrelevant/ running their lungs to tasting blood/ running from what would box them inside your definitional running the needle through any executioner’s room with windows draped with a curtain that gets pulled back for the witnesses to the show that would have them before death does/ never looking back as it slows them down to some grotesque deer in headlights, blinking/ breathing/ bent over and dripping in their quickly sweat/ 

If we permit this present injustice to boys to be perpetuated, their fundamental human rights to be violated, who will stand up and apologize on our behalf tomorrow? And will the boys who survive have the will and benevolence to forgive us. The boys we love are at chronic risk for dying, so needlessly, in the heart of our communities. I urge everyone to step up and do whatever they are able, to share their skills, ideas and humanity, so together we can raise urgent awareness and facilitate for survivors to have safer places to run to and to grow up in (Rachel Chapple, PhD; Founder, Real Stories Gallery Foundation 501c3).

IF THERE IS A WORD FOR IT/ if there is a word for horror it would be the now of now and its trajectory toward darkness concealing its true intent/ tell me your theory if there was a word for slavery we could know the thing instead of flinging ourselves into the shroud of it as we rub our eyes of stars and weep the thing is dead/ if there was a word for what rises in your throat it would reveal the glow of it split by a knife and abundance would insist on some deeper blackness/ deeper/ than the one we live in/

OUR WHISPERS WERE/ whispers slipping into night like i slipped into the wind across the mainland fields/ and when i shut my eyes to the rushing austerity of talons, all we were left with was your brazen glare/ we drifted on arousal/ and stained everything we touched/ 


Stories of liberation are always uplifting, but the challenges faced by survivors after they are free can be almost as difficult as the violence itself. Many face the same conditions of poverty, bias, and lack of opportunity. Plus, the physical and psychological damages they have endured also create immense challenges for a survivor attempting to raise the quality of his life.

People seeking protection in the US, who do not qualify for asylum or withholding of removal, may still be eligible for protection under the UN Convention against Torture. The fear of torture may be for any reason, but the torture must be at the hands of or with the acquiescence of a government or government officials. Although the USA has NOT ratified the Convention on the Rights of the Child, the USA has ratified the CRC's option protocol on the Sale of Children, Child Prostitution and Child Pornography. This charges US legal, healthcare & social services with serving the best interests of ANY child (UN definition, under 18 yr old) who has been traumatized and needs treatment for HIV/AIDS-defining infections & diseases, stomach ulcers, clinical depression, STDs, TB, suicide ideation, etc. The promises made to these children need to be honoured by America. 

Sex-Trafficked Boys (Our Second Selves)


A boy's life is changed forever by the physical and psychological violence and social neglect they endure in the sex trades, and AFTER. Early intervention makes a profound difference. It is not difficult to rescue a boy from traffickers and men who buy boys and pay to rape boys. They are not courageous people. They are always poised to run. The difficult part is persuading our governance & communities to share their money and pay for survivor-led stable safe housing, medical care and peer-mentored programs that guide their peers to safer places for the rest of their lives. The difficult part is persuading our governance & communities to share their compassion and welcome into their homes and into their lives boys who have been raped and have a history of sexwork, social neglect and HIV/AIDS. Boys whose lives are TABOO from every social and cultural perspective have few safe places to go and fewer people they believe they can trust with their lives.

Jumping, a poem by Jonah

Sometimes I think I will jump

and then I wonder if it

hurts and you cannot

really fly so heads I jump

and tails I just cross

the bridge and I will

pretend that all the poking

me and embarrassing me

and taking my blood will

be gone forever

I AM 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 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


Farid is dead. He died peacefully among the whores who kept ~ vigil ~

Sex workers who demand their human rights are not good candidates for trafficking.

à risque: lumière et movement by Pascal (Show Me Your Life)

A collage of sound, motion, dance, and metaphor that explores the perceptions Pascal has of the world around him.

How would you feel if as a child, you had been trafficked. You had been sold to people who kept you in a room for the specific purpose of fucking you in the ass.

And you have no idea what HIV or TB are, or what any of the people are saying.

You make the hungry sign.

You want to die.

You might.

No one is going to arrive to save you.

Chair and Teeth by Dmitry (12 years old, Russia)

Dmitry is twelve-years-old. He has spent the past year being trafficked on the boy meat market. He describes his life as growing up in a school where children lived with many other children. The adults in this place sold him. He says he knows he is a good boy because he always does what adults tell him to do. He says men hurt him. When pressed to go to a place where he can describe what these men did to him, all he can do is cry and rub his eyes with his fists. The art he makes is mixed media, usually not more than a couple of colors, usually dark, and he calls this particular piece: the teeth and chair room. The chair in the corner of the room appears to have been shit on. Dmitry explains that he was not always able to leave the room to go to the bathroom. He looks at the floor and is ashamed. There appears to be something like a bird on the back of the chair. Dmitry is flying away, although he is invisible. Dmitry is not sure he actually exists. This is post-traumatic syndrome trauma disassociating from the reality of his history. There are what appear to be teeth at the bottom of the piece. But the teeth also look like a fence. To the left of the chair there appears to be a raised arm and hand. The overall effect is prison-like. If you follow the lines, it looks something like a box. If you follow the lines to the right side of the art, you arrive at something that appears to be dark and fluid. As if something bad or monstrous (like a sea of blood) is leaking into the room. Dmitry is not sure what exists beyond the room. It might be freedom. Or it might not be freedom. It could be chaos. He is fearful and anxious. Immediately to the right of the chair sort of on the wall is what could be interpreted as a white-like, diffuse bird figure rising from what seems like material. Like a diaper. Dmitry is wearing a diaper as he cannot control his bowels. Under the diaper in the art there appears to be fluid that runs down the wall and the floor. The colors are a brownish yellow like shit and pee. Dmitry is being tested for HIV, and after some therapy is being placed in a family that speaks his native tongue.

A MAN ARRIVED by Kiril (Smash Street Boys/ Show Me Your Life)

Kiril does not speak English. He has written many poems. This poem is called A Man Arrived. It is dedicated to his mother who sold him.

Поэзия Кирилла

Для мамы.

Однажды человек пришел.

Мама плакала.

Она продала меня.

У нас не было денег.

Мне пришлось бежать. Я бежал.

Человек поймал меня.

Нехороший пьяный человек.

Я ненавидел его дыхание.

Они  делали плохие вещи со мной


Ты продала меня. Я побежал быстро.

Дети бегут от мужчин

Бегите, дети,

Спасайтесь! Это было зимой.

Моя мать продала меня.

Сейчас я хочу уснуть

И замерзнуть в снегу.

До этого времени все было покрыто льдом.

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