In this moving poem, Jenna describes her struggle to rebuild a life away from prostitution.

There is an escape room I can’t win. If I leave I just return. When I’m in there I feel numb. It’s not me, that dolled up girl. I try to make it pretty. Make myself look sparkly too.

I put on lots of make up, make my skin all soft and smooth. I spray myself with perfume, I spray the room as well. Does it look inviting? Depends upon your view of hell.

I look at myself from out my body. What am I doing? Is this really me? I think there was a glitch in time somewhere. This wasn’t supposed to be. I’m angry now, indignant. Don’t speak to me that way. I’m just as smart as you. Not some empty, vain cliché.

What I’d give to take revenge. But there’s no names and no address. Even if I did I’d just back out. Must suppress.

I take my rage inside of me and hurt myself some more. How do you heal a secret. A life no one knows about. I’ll bring it up in conversation and regret comes crashing down with doubt.

I’m not a perfect victim. My free will was my downfall. I’m hurting, drowning, shouting. No one ever hears the call.