Our Stories Are Not Fairytales
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My girl, she ran. A wounded woman-child, more afraid of being loved than used, ran from the light and tried to find her own way in the dark...
If only the sternum came equipped with a zipper, stepping out of the red light district I would have gladly unzipped my chest and shaken off my skin...
The sun burned down on my head and the homes plastered in manure...Hiking on rocky trails from home to home I tried to take in the sights...
One of our girls requested spaghetti for dinner on Monday night and ate it while she breastfed her 10 month old baby. It was her 15th birthday but the first time she has ever had a birthday party...
"Isn't it dangerous to work in the Red Light District; are you ever afraid?" When faced with these questions I always stumble-trip over emotions and words too complicated to communicate... 
Lying curled up on broken concrete under an aging spirit house I wondered, “How on earth did I get here?” It was past midnight and the street light shining through a spider web above me was threatening to give away my hiding place...
Hiding under a bed or in the cool shadows of a small closet is where she feels most at home. She hopes to remain unseen by the predators prowling, feeding on terror but her reprieve will only last as long as...
Walking into the red-light district,
I see an untapped army before me,
In the cacophony of noise and lust
I see Spartans and Vikings dressed in skimpy clothes and high heels...
She isn’t wearing a burka. She isn’t on her knees in the middle of the street waiting for the first stone to strike her tender flesh and carry her into another world. But she has been sent to her death nonetheless...
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