When I was only eight they came,
a woman in silk thread, reeking
of promise, and a man
of gold cross, one would trust.
“1000 baht for her” they said,
declaring tales of good,
plenty, prosperity,
currency of my people.
Apprised of our peasantry,
they came for me,
bearing bread and smiles
and whispers of plenty.
Empty-bellied Mama,
heeded with no resistance,
desiring life for her daughter,
her only crime.
And so into the night I went,
babydoll brave heart,
curled inside child’s fancy,
ripe for the promised land.
Plunged into battle of wrong,
a foul market of debauchery,
I become warrior,
to unrelenting demons.
Beasts without souls,
daring to rob mine,
but buried deep from thieves,
my feminine honor lives.
Dawn shatters the spell,
a temporary refuge,
for young hearts plenty,
praying for liberation.
We are the blood-red sea of tiny, girl soldiers.
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