Sometimes a child dies

*I struggle to write about my clients. I don’t want to exploit or sensationalize their stories. I’m going to try to speak from my experience. I work at a rape crisis center doing first response, crisis stabilization, counseling, and advocacy for sexually exploited minors.*

The world is ugly.

human beings are terrible people.

i see no beauty.

When a flower grows through the concrete, the next time I see it, it’s been stepped on

Girls are sold.

they are commodified

their bodies exchanged for food, shelter, money

someone hurts their body, someone seeks out their body, someone provides their body, someone buys their body, someone hurts their body

how much would you pay for me?

or maybe your mother? Sister? Daughter?

isnt it fucked how I have to make it personal?

How are we not all outraged.


Service providers struggling scrambling against a network of organized crime

against systems that are rigged

does anybody care?

when they are murdered does anybody cry

do only the social workers shed tears

“her strength brings me to my knees. Her spirit is unbroken.” -Jessica doles

my boss wrote that

i tattooed it on my shoulders

because when clients are murdered I think about how someone decided they are disposable. Someone decided their lives were fleeting.

So i memorialized their resiliency and their strength on my body. Permanent.

I mourn for them. We mourn for them.

There really are no words.

I’m spinning

Lightheaded with grief and terror and sorrow

I’m sick with worry for their safety  every night

every night it keeps me up

that I’ll get to work and learn, or turn on the news and see, or get a call and hear, that one of them has been murdered

and sometimes, it happens

sometimes a child dies




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