mon amant, ma douleur
No one wants to know or see that their parents are also their abusers. You stuff those memories down, or you replace them with the illusion that the earth we live on is a wonderful place to live our lives, and the cultures we live in are benevolent. People want to know that they are loved. It is important that someone loves you. Usually, this job description goes to family. Your family loves you. It is a good thing to be on planet earth.
Except for when it isn’t. The social fabric does not mean us. As children, the cracks are very large, and we mainly fall into them. As adults, we remember.
They beat me. They fucked me. They imprisoned me. They locked the door. I was refused clothing. They hurt me. They burned me. They stripped me naked and whipped me. They threw me through walls. I ran away. I took a gun and shot myself. I survived. I did not want to survive.
I want to die.
I want to live.
I want to die.
I want to live.
I only wanted it to be over.
But it is never over. It will be your companion, and it will be with you forever. There are no healers. The culture will scream there are healers. It is a lie.
You can make all the laws you want to. You can invoke the presence of a god. You can humiliated them with shame. You can make them register as offenders. You can throw them into prison and I will swallow the key for you.
It will not be enough. You can execute them all. It will not be enough.
They sold me.
They sold me.
They sold me.
I was the fuck it machine. Just fuck it, and pay him, and be done with it.
Men with families paid to fuck me. Nature is undisturbed on my private planet. Only I live there.
Men with religion paid to beat me.
Men with money paid to put their cock into my mouth.
Men shit on me.
I want to live. But I was not alive.
There was whispering. I can hear it now. There is always whispering behind my back. Paranoia comes with the territory. Ask any of my stalkers.
There was whispering.
I was just another hole. I was just another hole. I was just another hole. There is always an echo in a hole. A place where sound reverberated and disappears.
No one would help me. No one would talk to me. No one was there for me.
Not friends, not family, not teachers, not church. I was the problem. I was difficult. I was angry. I could not be touched.
I am a man and I still cannot me touched. Not by doctors. Not by lovers. Not by friends.
I was not able to hold a job.
I did sex work. I was a whore.
When men were fucking me, and paying me, I went somewhere else. I traveled to another planet because I knew how. My space suit protects me. I will not remove it. For anything or anyone. My body is not available. I have to invent my own rules. I have to invent my own laws. I have to organize my own advocates. Or no fraction of these things will be there. I make laws that will stop time. I market my seconds selves and we all find refuge on another planet.
We’ve been hunting down the story of adolescents who all live at the Biltmore Estates. The Biltmore Estates is a squat. The coughing you hear is called tuberculosis. The men who drive up into the parking lot in the back at night are seeking sex. It is pay as you go. It is our fault. It is all our fault. The men who want to sell you make regular sweeps. They will take you out for food. You will even sell yourself for food, for clean clothes, for any opiate you can get your hands on. If you overdose, it’s an accident.
Nothing is an accident. Networks that buy and sell children do not tolerate accidents, they tolerate getting paid. They are everywhere. Every class of human beings own an element of this. The Biltmore Estates is dangerous. These people are not your friends. They will beat you and rob you in under thirty seconds. They have knives and they’re quick.
They all have parents somewhere. Except for the ones who don’t. The Biltmore Estates has no hotel management.
Newcomers sleep in and on cardboard boxes in concrete dust.
They’re called too hard to even try to reach. The Biltmore Estates is crowded every night. If you have to puke, do it in a bucket. Everyone who lives here sleeping on a mattress knows how to contact the secret worlds they came from. These were not their homes, and only in strange ways did they ever represent the illusion of homes such adolescents wanted, but more like homes they could escape to if they were lucky, quick about it.
It’s not like they’re voters or employ lobbyists. No one listens to the advocate of these kids. There are only singers who sing to choirs. What do you think slavery is. There are no such exploitations on the planet I have so elaborately constructed.
No one can touch me there. I am safe. I have AIDS but I am safe. I have AIDS but I am safe.
I am an adult. No one loves me. No one likes me. No one cares. Why the fuck whine about it. Because attention must be paid.
I put my spacesuit on and I fly away.
I work with boys who have been raped. They have HIV as well. We call them boys at risk. Whenever I write about them, there will always be the ones who almost angrily maintain there are no such adolescents anywhere.
Bimbo, look around.
No one loves anyone because we do not know how. We attempt to reach out to one another. But it is useless because we are failures. You cannot love us because no one can.
We have done one thing.
We have survived.
They call us survivors. They call us the hard to reach. They call us patients. They call us crazy. How can it be crazy to want to die to make it stop.
We need it to stop, but we punish ourselves harder and quicker than anyone else. We kill ourselves every day.
If only culture could work hard enough to structure itself so we cannot be sold.
But we are here to tell you, it will not work. Because human beings are fundamentally greedy. Because human beings are fundamentally violent. Because human beings are fundamentally hateful. Because human beings will destroy the things they love.
We do not believe in love. We see other families, and in our guts, we do not know what it is.
It was our fault. It was our fault. It was our fault. This is what we believe.
We fight to even reach out to others like us. We do not understand how to make them our family, too. We cower inside ourselves. We sleep the sleep of the living dead in the ruins you have made for us.
There are no people, and there are no organizations of them that can stop it. Stop it in its tracks.
Cops do it. Parents do it. Families do it. The church does it. You can abuse us. It will never go away. This, too, is what we believe. You tell us to be hopeful.
Why would we be hopeful. Hopeful, or my understanding of it, has never helped. I am hopeful I can get to another planet. One I made. I put the getting there on me. I do not need you to ask me if I need a ride. I will hitch-hike. I will search blackboards for rides to somewhere else.
We will never organize. We do not understand how to work with other people.
People have always been sold because there are other people who will buy them, and there are people who sell them.
Quid pro quo.
Economics is more powerful than law. Economics is more powerful than morality. Economics knows no geographic borders. They will buy you and sell you anywhere.
No culture is immune.
But there are planets. Where no one buys you, and you can walk through a forest of trees like the wind. There are fields to walk through and you never trespass into territory another human being owns. No one is bought. No one is sold. No one is whipped naked. No one is burned with cigarettes. No one gets fucked in the ass. No one is shit on. No one lives on pills. No one is forced to whore. Planets where living and being are valued.
And then you wake up.
It was just a dream.