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SHOW ME YOUR LIFE. An art, poetry & storytelling initiative. Adults reading the poetry created by homeless pediatric & adolescent male survivors of sexual exploitation.

A video poem for Cameron

This is a poem, a poem by Cameron

This is a poem. Maybe it will not read like a poem. But what is a poem? This is my poem. When I am done with it, the poem will belong to me.

Fire and ice is my destiny. I made the mistake of falling in love with a trick. There are tricks and they are on fire.

There are whores and they are on fire. He always paid me double. But it was his life I wanted.

I wanted to be with him. I wanted him to love me. I wanted him to buy me nice things.

He was very wealthy, and he only saw me as a hustler, and I think in some ways I disgusted him.

If I sucked him off he would beat me up. He liked beating me up. There are people who will beat you up, and they are on fire.

I still dream that he beats me up, and I fall into a slow motion grave. Like HIV is a slow motion grave.

I do not care if all the AIDS activists say to me do not talk like that. How do I not talk like that when it what I dream when I try so hard to sleep.

It is like there is a burning bed inside the grave. It is dark like a brush fire in the desert where the damage is.

I leave the damaging things in my life out to dry in the desert when you drive to LA toward Palm Springs.

The court said I was disturbed, and I should be in the hospital, but I escaped from there too.

So I can leave the damaging things there to die like I am dying, and it does not matter what an activist says.

They do not like whores, and they are these guys who have everything. If you sit on a committee then you have everything.

They do not ease me into my bed of graves and flame. I broke into his big house and hid in the basement.

I just wanted to be close to him. I knew he was up there because I could hear him walking around.

His hemisphere of shadows where the sound of his house on fire was the bed he was fucking some other whore in.

Some other whore who he beat the shit out of after he came inside the whore. They think they can spit on us.

One guy paid me more if he could spit into my mouth. He wanted me to eat his shit, but I could not do it.

It was the smell of shit and tricks, and men who made you do it. If a whore says no then it should mean no.

The tricks cum inside of us, and the activists cum inside of us, and fathers cum inside of us, and it is all on fire.

They do not know the inside of us in any way. I am the fire and he was the ice.

Some other whore he would burn by leaving them when they fell in love with him like he left me when I told him I loved him.

Never love a trick. My life is like hiding in the desert where the damages still live and I am running.

I am running from the flames, and I am afraid of the flames I set with desire and gasoline and a cigarette.

I am ashamed of how I fell in love with someone who only beat me up, and why would I love him?

A trick who gave me black eyes after he fucked me every time. I am ashamed of who I am. 

I want to die. I want to die of AIDS in a bed of flames. AIDS is a disease, and it is on fire.

I want that trick with his big arms, and all his money, and his fists to ease me into my fantastical bed of flames.

There are fires, and there are whores who are on fire.  There are tricks who hate me, and they want to find me.

They are angry, and they want to beat me up again. But I am a desert dragon who has his own breathing fire to contend with.

This is a poem, and now it belongs to me. There are poems, and they are on fire.

 

rough whore blues, a poem by dane

 

we were the only mother and son team in our building

i would fuck her and men would watch

jacking off

and we would

have to swear we were really related

and we would speedball

mama and i and i would do some tricks on the side

but no holding out on mama she knew where i lived

in her pussy and her twat so then i started getting

public hair so she shaved me cuz shaved was what

those tricks wanted

and i do not think of myself as no

whore but i thoughta her one and she owed money

to a dealer fuckingshit so he paid me to beat the cunt

off that bitch

i hated her and her fucking needles and

her crispy creams was all we ever had you go live

in them projects you think it’s so funny boy i knock

your motherfucking teeth out your head

i hated that bitch

but men would pay us to watch me beat her up and

i beat her until that rough fucking whore turned

blue and if they paid me skank i’ll beat on you

so that is why i am a loser punk cutter dope bitch

who wants to die

with this disease please god i am so tired no

speedball can do me right

i have been sober a week and i hate it soaking

this chill in a thousand blankets

no one can get to me or hurt me

wrapped up in a thousand blankets

 
 

 

A Boy is Wearing Gloves, a poem by Dmitri

 

Sometimes men want me to play dress up.

I like gloves.

I do not like no hoods.

I want to see his face.

I want to see his eyes.

Sometimes even if you can see the trick’s eyes.

He might hurt you anyway.

If he puts a hood on.

It means he wants to whip me.

Men hate women.

They do.

Be very careful.

When you dress up.

If it is like a woman.

You can be hurt.

They will beat you up.

I call this Boy in Blue.

I made him blue.

Cuz you cannot see.

His bruises 2 good.

I took them out.

Mine do not go away.

They are forever.

So now I am in hiding.

Inside the Buddha.

Where no one can hurt me.

Or beat me up.

 

 

Getting Fucked at the Homeless Shelter, a poem by Lucas

 

the bullet

          that goes through

Cort’s brain

whizzes by              overhead

missing me

                       by less than

an inch

                 I am so lucky

Now I can live long enough

                 to go get fucked in the ass

by the older men

                in the homeless shelter showers

where I shit out their cum

so no eyes could see

               the blood and cum go swirling

down the drain

I am too tired

              to care

 

 

Never Told Him About the HIV, a poem by Ryan

 

one cop

fucked me

in the

backseat

of his car

he ripped me

open and

made me bleed

then he

took my money

and I never

told him

about the hiv

i have it

and then when

he was

slapping me

around

i kept thinking

i hope

he beats me

until I

bleed buckets

of my

infected blood

on him

and I hope

he fucking

dies

 

 

My Tricks All Have Big Cars, a poem by Miguel

 

                    My tricks all like showing off. Driving big car tricks. Big Cock Daddy for his little boy. You want to put your tongue you Big Daddy in my shit hole will cost you twenty bucks.

                    You want me to shit in your mouth will cost you a hundred. The cops said I beat one trick up pretty bad. But if you eat my shit and you do not pay me I am going to beat you up Big Car Daddy. You want to suck my titty will cost you one whole dollar.

                    I only eat shit if Daddy gets me needle high. You do not taste it then.

                    I piss on you will cost you fifty bucks. Your car will smell like pee. I gottacalculator running inside my head like the nurses have when you go the ER with like some pimp has broke your bones. Clicking off the numbers you will owe them.

                    You wanna come in my mouth will cost you seventy-five dollars upfront. You wanna cum in my hole will cost you an ounce of coke. I am supposed to be impressed by Daddy and his big old car.

                    But all dicks taste the same to me. I don’t own a car. You gotta be careful with the tricks cuz after they cum they want you out of there. They throw me out. And then they burn rubber out of there. Sometimes I wonder what kind of houses they live in.

                    All I know is that the houses must be big. You gotta big house and a big car and a heart smaller than my left tit in a deep freeze.

I had these sheets, a poem by Trig

 

I had these sheets

I took many of the men who paid me to have sex with them to my clean new sheets

Like snow

I was making love in snow

Only really I was fooling myself we were making love

Cos’ they did not love me.

It is hard to love me.

You have to be very strong. To do it

Even I cannot do it.

I will admit it, that I wished some of them might love me.

Might take me to his home, in his arms

But it is a joke. It could never happen.

They just wanted to come in me.

I just wanted to buy food.

When they left that little motel room I lived in,

I would try and not watch them go.

Cos’ I was always looking, at how his shit messed up my sheets.

Oh, before you know it. You will be on your knees.

My sheets in the backyard wind, were avenging angels



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