trafficked: a poem

hey kid, you want some candy?
no. I’m 16.
oh. do you want to make some money?
then yes.

never seen again.

hidden in plain sight,
right under our noses,
somewhere nondescript—
a rundown apartment,
or darkened basement,
or mundane warehouse.

forced to share their skin
with others
for a few bucks.
not even the owners of the sale,
just the commodity.
a commodity of flesh,
and pleasure.
that ephemeral and wasted pursuit
all for money.

then, hatred thereafter
at the realization:
what’s done is done.

but it’s not over, is it?
they’ll return,
cash in hand.
they usually do—
even though
they hate themselves—
they’ll be back.

first,
strangers’ beds.

then:
injection needles.
hungry infants.
overdue bills.
suicidal thoughts.

sallow skin
hanging loose
on bones like rags.
loose teeth, loose hair.
a hatred of one’s own flesh
and the thought of ending it all.

anything’s better than this.

a developed addiction
to white stuff or black stuff or crystal—
a hunger like that of a black hole.
always consuming, never satisfied.
magnetism to syringes and pipes and spoons—
unwanted,
but too strong to pull away.

deceived and deported,
captured against their will,
(like wild animals)
with ill intent
from the get-go.
taken by force or false promises
and smuggled.
pawns in the game,
hurt and sacrificed
for someone else’s gain.

young girls beguiled:
sold a dream
of making money,
being independent.

thinking it is
somewhere to go
after making a rash decision
of running away from home.
bad at home,
but walking into a worse hell.

sold to men
willing to pay the right price
(bidders for the sex slave).
little remorse,
little sadness.
justification in the mind
for the action.
sex is sex is sex.

I’m doing them a favor by paying them.
they wanted this or they wouldn’t do it.

now get to work,
they say.
you’re on the clock,
and I’ve got places to be.

if only they knew.

poor, lost children of God.
scattered like sheep,
preyed on by wolves.

the Lord sees you—
brokenhearted
and alone—
nothing escapes His eye.
the sins of it can be forgiven
and your life can be rebuilt.

just. run.

from the sharks who just want your money.
from the pricks who just want your body.
from the pain, the suffering, the addiction.

flee
and run to God—
the infinite healer
and the mighty judge.
the Ultimate Judge
at the end of days
and all of time,
immemorial:

this day
and the day before that,
and all the days afterwards
until the sun goes dark.

He will judge,
He will judge,
He will judge.

you will be acquitted
if you give your life to Jesus.

the buyers of your flesh,
will face their consequences
if repentance
is as far from them
as Saturn.

each transaction
a charge against their fate,
sealed with every swipe
of the morality credit card.
swipe and swipe and swipe
until:

limit reached,
transaction declined.

pay the bill in full
plus late fees of your soul.
if payment is not made,
and reconciled,
your soul will be forfeited
and everything you have
will be taken from you:
repossessed by force,
until cast out
into terrible darkness,
and utter loneliness,
never to be seen again
in that petulant dark
with weeping and gnashing of teeth
and whatever other monstrosities
and grotesque menageries
await
right beneath our feet.

run.
run from the acts.
and run to God.

today’s not too late to change the future.

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this is a poem from my book bearing the burden of existence, available on Amazon.

Be sure to check out my blog, A Soul Redeemed.