This is a poem that just kind of happened as a result of what I’ve been experiencing/witnessing in Thailand so far. The sort of obvious or prevalent social justice issue here is sex trafficking, in fact it’s almost a defining characteristic of the country & we’ve been witnessing transactions firsthand since being here. This poem was birthed out of pondering the dehumanization & commodification of women, & thinking about what I want to say to a john (a man purchasing sex), seeing as I’ve passed hundreds of them on the street this month & each time I’m filled with unbridled indignation.
This is a letter from me to a john in the form of a poem. It is written below, followed by a spoken version of it, which is how it was intended to be performed/received when I wrote it.
Love to anyone who reads & keep me in your prayers if you’re a prayer warrior<3.
If you’re not a reader bypass the text & watch the video :).
Consumer, ConsumeHer
Do you remember lunch on Wednesday of last week with your wife?
Coca-Cola, French Fries & turkey on rye…hold the mustard..?
Hold the lies,
Hold the secrets tucked between the bills in your wallet reserved for less honorable times, hold them in hands bloody, tainted by dirty money – ”Honey, pass the salt & pepper, but hold the fidelity…”
Hold the love that feels more like obligation these days
Hold the memory of lunch dates & anniversaries in a dusty filing cabinet in your hippocampus marked ”unread”.
Hold them there to cope.
Take that wedding ring that strangles you & hold it in your sweaty palm for barely a second to keep reconsideration at bay before you tuck it away in the back pocket of your pants & sub conscience for safe-keeping.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Hold the weight of 20 years of matrimony squandered by lust.
That compass of carnality that pointed South towards all the places you never thought you’d find yourself, & you were right because upon arrival you just got more lost.
At first you were embarrassed to be there but now you’re conveniently callous.
Hold the weight of 20 years of matrimony like you held your first baby girl 19 years ago , swearing she’d never see seedy hotel rooms where pot-bellied predators lie in wait to consummate…a selfish sexual compulsion.
Not love.
Un-love.
Anti-love.
You are not ”making love” you are making one more memory heavy with guilt, pacified & tucked in for the night under a blanket of justification.
You are not ”making love” you are imposing one more memory on a girl that you won’t remember the name of, a memory that she will spend years trying to forget.
You are making bad dreams & stains on bed sheets & consciences.
Not love.
Ration the lies…2 for the wife, 4 for the kids & at least like 125 running the lines of your neurotransmitters to convince yourself this is all in good fun.
Make sure there’s enough to go around
To keep the questions unasked like guns in their holsters. Dormant. Unthreatening. Unloaded.
Do you remember your Mother?
The way she was a woman too?
The way she was a woman too?
The way she was a woman who scolded you when she found pornography under your mattress when you were 11.
She was a woman too, like these women pleasing you.
& Do you remember when you were a boy?
When life was all Tonka trucks in a sandbox & grilled cheese sandwiches?
When girls had cooties & you swore you could fly after watching an episode of Superman.
When you’re Grandpa told you the sound of thunder was made by the devil pulling a wagon through gravel, & there was no doubt in your mind that this was scientifically proven
You were so impressionable.
When stars were just holes to heaven and you were only ever evil when you played the villain when you played pretend with your best friend.
Man standing before me caught red-handed, I can love you, because you were just a boy once.
I can love you because all men sin & fall short of the glory of the God who helps me to love you.
All men fall short.
7.1 billion & counting.
Let’s take a look at more numbers:
You’re 45 years her senior.
4 times her size.
You’re 2 eyes that have seen her,
Her perfect disguise,
Hiding one broken heart,
From 25 guys,
7 days a week,
365,
400 Baht
So you take your turn..
One shattered soul,
no exchange or return.
Hide your receipts from your wife & your daughters.
Hide your appetite from this princesses Father.
I see your face flush red like her lips.
The majority of humankind has forgotten how to blush.
But your translucent, Caucasian, entitled skin tells me stories of your fragility.
And I’m relieved that you now seem to be a little more man than monster, although most monsters are manifest as men anyways.
You feel what you should.
You are still able to blush..
And the blood that puddles at the surface & floods your face with the heat of being found out is the same blood on your hands every time you have your way with her.
She is human.
She is woman, phenomenally like Maya Angelou said.
Realize this girl is not the caricature you have diminished her to so that you’d have peace of mind about your latest purchase.
Gin $5
Appetizers $4
Girl $3
No.
Girl priceless.
Girl costly.
She’s the daughter you’ve convinced yourself she wasn’t.
She’s the ‘bar girl’ who’d rather be a student.
She’s the sister who’d rather be elsewhere, with the people she sends money home to so they can eat a meal a day.
This is her last resort as much as it is your guilty pleasure.
She is not armed & ready as she says.
She is not bulletproof or happy to see you.
She is staccato laughter smothered, foggy dreams extinguished & potential suppressed.
Starved of hope she doesn’t know she could have.
If she was cut she’d bleed platelet & plasma like you, not glitter eye shadow & cherry lipstick, not pleather & pink nail polish, not rose petals & perfume.
She is a psyche full of more lies than you have in your repertoire, she needs them to outsmart insomnia & keep the nightmares at bay.
She is innocence stolen & purity plundered.
She is afraid & alone.
She is ready for Jesus.
She is just doing her job.
She is done.
She is worth more.
More than all the currency in circulation on this dark & lonely planet.
She is absolutely worth more.
And for a moment she let her guard down & I saw her soul, something that you’ve never seen in all those hours beholding her reluctant nudity.
I saw her soul.
How it aches for Light like a moth with dusty wings.
How it aches for freedom & Truth.
So step back.
No longer be a cage.
So that she will no longer be a bird that only knows the jaded trill of the ones that never get to use their wings or taste the heavens.
She was not meant to be flightless.
She was not built for a cage.
She was built by a great God for a great purpose.
She was built for redemption.
So step back.
No longer be a cage.
