Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Lost Girls In Lorries

Screams are plastered on the walls,

like her blood,

his spit,

his handprints,

on her face,

raging and red.

Nobody hears,

because nobody listens,

and nobody looks for girls like her,

in the dark,

dingy night.

Shut up.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

Take your clothes off.

Nobody told her it would be like this.

Stop crying.

She thought she’d be working in a factory.

Cry some more, my friend likes it.

She just wanted to make money for her mother’s medication.

I paid for everything.

She knows they’re right, when they say there is no escape.

You have nothing.

She knows there’s no way out, when there are no safe ways in.

You have nothing.

Screams are plastered on the walls,

like her blood,

his spit,

his handprints,

on her face,

raging and red.

One day,

she’ll be dead,

the government will weep,

as if they gave her a choice.

If only she’d come legally!

Crocodile tears,

from ivory towers,

that have a view,

of how lost girls are lead to the jaws of monsters,

by the trail set out,

by ministers and masters.

Ministers and masters are the same,

her fate is the same,

as many others,

sometimes,

ministers visit,

to make sure the masters carry out their corruption,

to very specific orders.

Lonely statistic.

Jane Doe on a home office list,

of girls who only wanted opportunity,

the kind of girls,

that nobody looks for,

in dark nights,

or dark lorries,

or dark rooms,

in dark houses,

with chains on the door,

and chains on the floor,

where her ankle imagines freedom.

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