I look back at my Prostituted Self with disbelief.

I am proud to say that finally, I cannot image living that life anymore.

I reaching out for a full life – with no ownership, no male violence as my routine, and no more thoughts of suicide.

I look back and can finally grieve my Prostituted Self.

I can to, with and for her.

I can introduce her to my exited Sisters, and in them we have found a family and a shelter.

I am proud to speak her truths – including all the gaps and silences, all our confusion.

I have show her trauma, saying the gaps and silences are holes in the brain.

I allow to know she was never to blame, but she is can be furious at what male violence made her.

She can scream that pain still flows through my mind and body.

She can fight at memories of constant punters, nameless and faceless, constantly torturing her.

She can yell at the ignorance as she sees her hell labelled as just work and no crime.

I tell I will speak her truths, even as I gaslighted, even as the sex work lobby portrayed me as mentally ill.

I will speak for her despite trauma.

This is my promise.