I also have the impression that many women have been able, instinctively, to sniff out this loneliness of mine, which I confided to no one, and this in later years was to become one of the causes of my being taken advantage of.

When the switch fell I could feel it upon my flesh; when it welted and ridged it was my blood that ran, and I would think with each blow of the switch: Now you are aware of me! Now I am something in your secret and selfish life, who have marked your blood with my own for ever and ever.

i sometimes felt as if these marks on my body were a kind of code, which blossomed, then faded, like invisible ink held to a candle. But if they were a code, who held the key to it? I was sand, I was snow — written on, rewritten, smoothed over.

for me, my sensuous body was a liability-it seemed to attract the wrong men for the wrong reasons. (Chapter Three)

And then I realized I was being checked out by GUYS! And I know they were checking me out, because they were looking at me like I look at tacos. And I thought to myself, "Oh my god, I can turn on a man! [Grins and struts] Shoot!" And I called my girlfriend, and I said, "Baby, you better not mess this up; I have options!"

Being attacked is a sign that you are important enough to be a target.

My body was braille for the creeping influences.

It annoys me when some men take advantage of me after showing them love and care.

I still carry the marks on my body of what those "German supermen" did to me then. I was sentenced to death.

I saw some who bore marks of wounds on their bodies and I made signs to them to ask how this happened, and they indicated that people from other nearby islands come here and try to take them as slaves. They are well-built, with good bodies and handsome features... I believe that they would be excellent servants. With fifty men, we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want

Why couldn’t I take control of my own life, since after all, I was virtually husbandless and, what did my husband care about a woman’s virtue? If I was sleeping with men and charging them for it, it was me giving myself to them. The body being used and misused belonged to me.

I marked myself once with a knife. I was disappearing into the adolescent sea of rage and destruction. The mark of pain assured me of my own reality. The cut could speak. It had a voice that cried out when I could not make a sound in my defense. I never made such a mark again. Instead I chose to slash art onto canvas, pencil marks onto paper, and when I could no longer carry the burden of history, I found other openings. I found stories.

If a person gave away your body to some passerby, you’d be furious. Yet you hand over your mind to anyone who comes along, so they may abuse you, leaving it disturbed and troubled—have you no shame in that?

Upon my knees i say 'You used me'
And I feel dirty from your touch