Years later,
I try to reassemble my heart.
Unearth what was buried.
For protection. For safety.
Pretending to have a normal life.
Just like you.
Ceaselessly, I was what they made me be.
Everyone's expectations crushing me.
Not wanting to disappoint.
Needing to please.
No matter the cost.
Or else.
Each trafficking victim experiences
the shame of shattered self.
Broken soul.
Regardless of the color of my skin,
the shape of my eyes,
the country I was born in,
the money I grew up with.
Despite my vices,
background,
education.
If I had two parents,
or one,
or none.
I was sold by parents
to feed a drug addiction.
Or tricked,
lured.
Hungry for love.
Kidnapped off the streets
near home.
Out for ice cream.
Or running from something worse.
Only to exchange one abuse,
one violation,
one exploitation
for another.
Our faces are different,
We endured harshness.
Hell.
Humiliation.
Violence.
Man after cruel man.
Haunted by nightmares.
Fear.
Feelings of unworthiness.
Unearthing layer
after layer.
It is time.
Tears pour as I dig deeper
and deeper.
Dangerously close to the core.
Where pain festers.
Unable to be hidden any longer.
The truth screams to be released.
Who am I?
I lost myself so long ago.
Gushing away with my blood
After the first blow to my womanhood.
The real me slipped away.
To protect myself.
Hiding.
To be found again,
years later.
When it is safe.
Time to turn hell into heaven.
Find a purpose in this evil.
I am the face of trafficking.
An age old horror,
that has resigned too long.
Raise an army.
See the reality.
Save our children.
The beautiful faces of our children.
I hear their stories.
After they hear mine.
They are young women.
And old.
Whispering their similar tale.
Finding their voice.
No longer allowing
power to sadistic captors.
We prevail.
I have had many faces.
Forced to be many people.
Finding myself
has been a long journey.
A chilling road.
I need to know that little girl again.
Bind and heal her wounds.
Nurture strength
from within.
From above.
-Theresa Flores
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