Poetry by
Anne Bissell
author, “Memoirs of a Sex Industry Survivor”
Sex slaves in the suburbs
Young teens kidnapped from their homes
Beat up by brazen pimps
Sold over and over again
Not from Thailand , or Peru
But from Toledo , Ohio
Or Wichita , Kansas
Their own back yard
They are runaways so
We say
They chose it
They chose to walk the streets of the
Track, the ho track
Three blocks from the White House
Pimp controlled area
From two am to six in the morning
An open air market
The thirteen year old girl from Iowa
Enjoys being in the middle of a pimp
Circle told she ain’t nothing but a ho
Even though when they grabbed her she
Was a strait A student who went to Bible Study
Ain’t nothin new
The guys at the strip club say
As they march back to the
Back room
They didn’t know she was only fourteen
Gone on for decades
Pipelines, circuits, nothing new but
We must begin to see the problem
Or they slip slide away into a vortex of shame
Broken, damaged, hopeless, with no way
Back home
Craig’s list
Young girls for sale
Eros.com, or redbook, you can order them
Any age, any size just like you would
A blow up doll
Some die
We don’t know their name
Last year, I thought I saved one
Katelyn
Aka Mei Jai, aka Jane Doe
Bus stations New York City Houston
The cops were involved, the pimps made them
Line up every night
Three options
The ho track, the hotels, or
Craig’s List dates
Brought over in a duffle bag
I still don’t know where she is
She has not seen her mother since she was thirteen
But I hear her voice
Is she eighteen? Will she make it to nineteen?
I hear these girls’ voices
Hundreds of them, thousands of them, waiting
Waiting for justice
I was these girls
Trapped in a basement
A runaway forced to have sex
It was my job
Trafficked, bound, sold.
If it was your daughter, your sister,
Your mother, wouldn’t you want to help?
If it was your sister, mother daughter
Wouldn’t you be willing to go into
The heart of darkness
To find the beast that walks amongst us
Unrecognized
Sex addiction
Innocence distorted by
The demand for children as
Sex objects
If you could have bought me off of
Craig’s list
Back when I starting running away,
At fourteen
See the twentieth century, the seventies
I would not be your featured poet
Right now
And
You wouldn’t be reading this poem
So fighting to reveal their truth, I become one
With my nightmares.
In their honor, my destiny is restored
Giving the girls trapped in hotels and basements
A voice helps me reach toward the light.
Anne Bissell/Executive Director
Email: sisasurvive@yahoo.com
www.thesilverbraid.org
www.annebissell.com
http://www.vfjnw.org