And so I became a ho (Part 1)

One day I realised that for way too many of the wrong years I wasn’t having sex but I’d been raped most of the time. It sucks. I was so shocked, I was feeling like maybe I should just die.

I couldn’t believe that I consider myself a person after people had just violated my body and raped me like I’m not a whole person to say no and be left alone. I wanted to die. I still feel that way sometimes, like I should just die because every day, everywhere I exist – not everywhere I go but wherever I dare to take up some space and exist – people rape me.

I grew up being made to feel like if I express my explicit desire to fuck, I’m gross. I’m wrong, I’m not doing what ladies do. Makes me wonder if that means ladies must be raped and never have sex?

I had q’wuestions.

I started to wonder what the fuck kind of fucked up shit is this? After all that time I’d spent being violated. I thought that the way “sex” happens is that someone kinda forces me to do it, that’s what they mean when they say that we shouldn’t come out right and want to fuck. I stopped hanging out with rapists a long time ago; I stopped chilling out and talking to men like they’re not some kind of “psycho” who’s just plotting to rape me eventually.

That previous sentence isn’t even a lie. Every time a nigga steps to me I think he’s just trying to buy time before he can rape me. Then people want to talk shit and be insensitive about rape like we’re talking about someone breaking your windscreen – a whole human life being treated like some fuck thing from a bin?

I am angry, I’m angry and bitter as fuck! And whenever a dude is trying to talk to me about MY body and what to do with MY self?! As if it is not my very existence the reason that I’m being raped – not that I was drunk out of my mind and wearing tight clothes.


Open Letter to my Broken Heart

I don’t think my lovers “loved” me but I felt sane with them. My desire to control everything, or at least have clearly defined boundaries (albeit unspoken) was satisfied by them. I knew exactly what it was and what it wasn’t. I knew that my menstrual sadness could be dumped on them when they brought me pain pills and delicious food. I knew what it was and what it wasn’t. It was everything, except the one I can’t identify. (Does it really exist?)

They always dump me, my boyfriends (we call them ‘Him’ now). I will never be the one to call it off because I will not be the one who was wronged, or the one who couldn’t let go of what somebody else had done. I will not be the one who is afraid of it.

I will never call it off. He will. He did. He always does. Because he still wants to pretend after I’ve told him from the very beginning that I am something wrong, there is nothing wrong with me.

This love thing, the commitment. I can’t say what it is or what it isn’t. I don’t know if there are lines to draw or where I would draw them. I can’t stand not knowing what it is, once in a while curiosity (or FOMO) gets to me and I think to myself, “Maybe I will figure it out when I’m in it” but… Nothing. I try, always the same me but a different him and all of them want something (not sex, you who is ready to label me a whore) I don’t know.

Let me be the one who wronged him. Let me remind him of all the things done wrong to him by someone else before. He will be the one who is afraid of it.

He will call it off.

I didn’t want to be the one who gave up so I sacrificed you in an unfruitful quest to figure it out, this love thing. The commitment. What is it? I don’t know but I do know that I always do it wrong.

My dear Broken Heart, I am sorry that I wasted your wholeness on something I don’t know how to do. 


I wish my biggest fears were: “What if … when I am dead?” but they aren’t.
I’ll be dead.
Whatever I did or did not do will not matter to me, nor do I care what happens to those I have left alive: I will be dead.
I don’t think my corpse will be concerned about anything while she decays to feed the creepy crawlies beneath our soil.

One of my biggest fears is that I will never get over my fear of pregnancy.
That I will spend nine months with a life inside of me & when she is due to live on the outside she will die.
My biggest fear is that I will bond with my unborn child, and she will become the center of my world before the outside knows of her life but she will not live to love me back.
I am afraid of loving someone more than I love myself, before she even knows how to love me & she will not live to give me back my love.
I am afraid that my husband will pamper me, and love us both. My sweet husband will give half his life to us and I will never love him again after I lose my baby.. I am afraid that my husband’s love will be rejected because my heart will be crippled by the loss of my life & that I will not love life anymore.

One of my biggest fears is that my biggest fear will keep me from living the life I want because I can only expect the worst to happen & keep the best locked away in my imagination.