#ludus objecti

pointy skin and bone,

meat walking, wishing for more,

whispers screaming not-to-be,

so fragile, weak, so endlessly sick,

always a product bound to be

consumed endlessly.

vile skin that shines,

its own desires denied,

for something beyond laying down,

and accepting flesh —

as her final line.

simply another object on the pile.

simply another non-human forced to play this endless farse.

a soul unallowed to thrive,

condemned to survive,

to be an object of desire

until her own desires starve —

or get killed,

tw: sexual trauma, mentions of sexual acts, mentions of sex work and sexual abuse.

it's midnight.

another guy.

more money — that’s what makes it worthwhile.

sometimes i can't set limits,

and that hurts for a while.

it hurts for a while...

but anyway, it's just a shame, and i can't blame him for that.

(you should blame him for that.)

i didn’t speak, i didn’t say — it’s not his fault he didn’t understand.

(you spoke, in your own way — it’s his fault he insisted.)

i kept making noises, i was feeling pain —

but i guess the message got lost in translation...

(or it was simply exactly what he wished...)

i used to skip baths,

i used to neglect care,

it made me hate myself.

now, at least, i don't hate myself —

as much as i did.

because i’m forced to care for myself,

so they will like me.

i am unsure —

is this good? or not?

was i forced to choose,

or did i willingly accept this job?

i forget my memories...

i forget what used to be...

i forget everything that led me here—

first client, boring — but at least he didn’t hurt me.

second, lovely — maybe i had misjudged all of this?

third, normal — fast, done, gone.

fourth, dumbass — but he made me feel intensely.

fifth, just wanted to look and touch — simple.

sixth, intelligent — i saw in his eyes all he wanted was to please.

seventh... my error. i should have said. i should have spoken. i should have—

(my error? wake up — what he did was abuse. you told him to stop, and he didn’t. WAKE UP!)

autistic? the sites block me from saying i’m different.

"neurodivergent" — a word none of them have ever heard.

legs in constant, screaming pain — whatever! as long as it pays...

that’s why i don’t speak. but i can’t blame me, or blame them when they don’t get it.

(you’re not at blame. you spoke, even when it hurt. you were ignored. you’re not at fault. you’re a victim, not a product.)

so why does it still hurt —

if no one is at fault?

(because someone is at fault.)

am i wrong

for not screaming i’m not normal?

or am i just...

another victim of necessity...?

(neither. you are a victim of someone — a victim of an abuser. how are you so dumb?)

as... long as it pays.

(not enough to be worth it.)

as long as we eat.

(sadly, a necessity.)

as long as we don’t sleep on the streets...

(as long as we don't sleep on the streets.)

we’ll endure. we’ll survive.

i’ll endure. i’ll survive.

i’ll...

this game forces to wear a mask,

play it well, for it's your task,

if you do not, money won't last,

maybe you could even starve.

and alone, maybe you'd be fine,

but with someone you have to fight,

for love is a task which needs fulfilled,

and death is not easy to feel.

play the game well, show a true side

if you can't keep the mask for long,

commit to showing a "sincere" part

picked out from all the other ones,

because this game needs to be played by someone who knows that no one

cares about your suffering, your struggles or your wishes or future plans.

your body is what they desire,

your words will be their guide, messiah,

if you fail, they will not buy,

you are a product, but not apart,

if you are special, forget you are,

and know that you still aren't worshipped,

Tw: allude to sex work, heavy trauma, vent.

(You'll only understand this soliloquium if you have read some of my other writings, especially the ones relating to sex work, the tag #ludus objecti contains all of them, if you're interested.)

I just wasn't able to bear,

the weight of this forsaken game,

or how much it made me insane.

Memories sometimes come to me again,

and they almost make me... Vomit.

I just can't deal—

with what I was forced to do to survive,

I cannot simply erase the scars in my mind,

I cannot continue to fight.

My mind is long gone,

and if ever a child I was,

I can never be one anymore.

And if ever a sane mind I had,

it will never be sane once more.

But at least we didn't starve,

at least a contribution in that I had,

for some time I felt I wasn't useless for a change,

even if everything about me is broken, fragmented and deranged —

not because I was born that way, no one is,

but because I was made.

I'll always feel like I'm the most useless piece, even if she keeps saying I'm important to her,

words simply cannot change,

they cannot unbreak.

They can't allow me to walk again.

No one can cure what this world did to me,

and even I can't...

Cure what it did to her.

I just wish these memories,

would stop—