Gothic Lolita

Inside a chest of ruffles and laces is the soul of a little girl, a little girl that was dressed up like a little doll with rogue on her lips and masacra on her lashes. She was put in a dress and she was made to be perfect, make everyone happy, turn when you're told. Smile to the strangers for they may shower thee with gold. As you grow older remember you're beautful and you show that to everyone, family and friends-- Youth and elders and when they speak to you remember to be nice to them and maybe they'll be nice to you. Words to remember and still haunt me years from those days when I would be dressed up and put on display. Like a little doll, dressed up in lace, painted eyes and mouth on a pretty procelain face. When you're a child it's called precious and sweet, you are looked at and complimented all the time with a smile. But as you grow older they say you're not longer sweet but you're acting kind of wild. Showing off your beauty like you were always told to do, who do you think you are? I think I'm what I was raised to be and that's what I have become, made into this anti-american dream to make everyone proud.

But because of all of this my life was taken away, the innocence has run dry and I hide myself in shame. "You used to dress up all the time, but then you started doing it less and less?" Because I do not want to remember the red stained dress, I do not wish to recall the mess of the broken doll that I had became. I don't want to remember what it was like to feel disgusted and ashamed. "How old are you?" I asked the man, his age was a number that was probably more than my age will ever be. For I died that night, my soul was locked away with my dresses and my make-up, and my pretty face. I am a Gothic Lolita now, a shell of the dead girl who's life was ended before it could begin. But because there was no body in this murder, and no weapon to be found, the killer got off clean with murdering my soul. And my voice is silent right now for no one will believe me, not with the image I created of myself. A whore like myself seeking attention, there was no way to say that I had been raped by an older man when I asked for it myself they'd say, the way I dressed and acted no one will believe me. I just want attention, I'm just lying for attention.

And now years have passed I do not know how many, could have been a thousand, could have been two or three. When your life was ended at such a young age, and the soul inside of you has perished you know nothing of time and space. All I can say is "Thank you kind Sir" for he made me what I am today, a bundle of broken nerves and a mouth full of words I am still afraid to say. And now that I am old enough to love, I couldn't begin to even if my pretty life depended on it. What is love? I do not even know what that is, I have lived so long in fear of the memories of hands coming down on my fragile frame and holding my down so that they may impale me with whatever item they choose? Let it be the handle of a broom or that of a brush, let it be their flesh or their furtive, unclean hands. Let me wonder what is love? When the only thing you've known is pain? And when I sit across from the man at the kitchen table and try not to look at his face, I wonder if he knows that my life was ended by his hand? That I am just a dead little girl buried in a box of lace and ruffles with no means of escape. Does he know that if I am a Gothic Lolita then that makes him the criminal and that I wish to have him killed by an army of all the little girls he killed, the ones he impaled, the ones he buried deep inside themselves. Like he did to me when I wasn't even legal and now here I am, a dead little girl inside of a shell of an adult woman. And I know that if I told anyone I would be lying, if I told anyone I am just wanting attention, if I told anyone about that murders that this man dost commit, I would be made into the blame.

Because I asked for it, any man would do what he did because of the way I dressed at the time. Any man would have done the same to me, and so I perfectly understand, it's my fault.

I am your sugar. . .
I am your cream. . .
I am your anti-american dream. . .

Did you know that a little girl was murdered at the age of fourteen because of the way she dressed, and no one-- I repeat no one heard her scream. Did you know a little girl's soul was destroyed when she wasn't even legal? Did you know that it was her fault, that she asked for it? I'm sorry-- I perfectly understand-- This is my fault, for you see that little girl was me.