I’m not crying, not really; I’m a good girl, and good girls never cry… He told me so. I’m really pretty, I know, I’m so pretty I could be anything at all, anything I want, if I do what he tells me to… I could be a princess and have my own pony and all the toys I want, he says.
I’m not crying, not really; I’m shivering, the shoulder of my clothes keep falling off and I’m cold. But I’m not allowed to pull them up because people are watching, and he says I look better without my clothes on. I’m famous you know, and I’m not scared of the weird way people look at me, because famous people aren’t scared of licked lips.
The make-up makes my face itch and feel heavy and I wish mummy was here so I could sleep with her instead… erm… the clothes are really pretty, though, and he says I get to keep them if I want, afterwards… only I don’t because they keep disappearing. I’ll ask him about that tonight…
He loves me, you know, and I love him really and he doesn’t scare me at all and I’m really happy because I’m a good girl and good girls are always happy and never complain or cry… so I’m always happy, never crying, never sad and always smiling. I’ll ask him where the dresses go tonight, because he tells me anything at night…
(Okay, there was an article in the paper today about these nine year old catwalk girls and how they are basically indulging paedophiles… I felt that needed to be addressed. Hope it makes you think a little for me… just a little will do.)