Don't you ever wonder what those child models are thinking? (and I really need to categorize these better.)
She's such a tiny little thing, such a cherished little thing, such a lovely little thing.
She's got big blue button eyes, hair black as the devil and long as a river, and that strange little mouth that frowns with upturned corners. She's a flicker of fire, a charismatic flame that flourishes in the fuel, so much fuel, too much fuel, until she inevitably drowns in it.
She lives her life in the lights, and she smiles, smiles her little frown. She doesn't speak, but when she does, out comes the poison they feed her. The lies taste like ashes in her mouth, but she doesn't know, she's never known anything else.
She doesn't know what she looks like. She looks in the mirror and wonders if it's her real face she's seeing, or just whatever face they painted on that day.
They dress her up, stare her down. They'll dote when she's charming and judge when she's not.
She's just a doll. A precious little doll.
Except that she's not.