Pretty baby

My mother used me for profit as her 

chapped lips grasped for the spout of her liquor bottle.

We were a team.

She was my mom, and I was her job.

My Atlantic eyes stared into the camera.

At 11 months old,

I sold Ivory Soap.

At 11 years old,

I became the Pretty Baby

auctioned off for my looks.

Standing there like an object in front of grown men, 

as they bid and adjusted their tuxedos.

I kissed one of them.

I don’t even know how to kiss anybody.

My child's blouse lay on the floor.

But, it’s okay 

because it was for the movie.

At 14 years old, I lay on the beach in my white cut-out skirt,

my long brown hair acting as a shirt

to cover the features I didn’t even have.

As I watch the blue lagoon pass by,

lying on the floor in my blue jeans, I ask’

‘You know what comes between me and my Calvins?

Nothing.’

What does that even mean?

And I’m not saying I was clueless,

but I didn’t know.

My life had been set and scripted before I could speak.

Before I could think for myself.

To fit the desires of the public, to fit the desires of the male gaze.

I never had a moment to find myself.

And there’s no return of innocence once it has been stolen.

Once my longing fire has been extinguished before it could even burn.

So, I just disassociated.

And agreed.

And agreed.

I had everything a girl could ever want.

My face, good enough for Michael Jackson. 

My fame, the most beautiful girl in the world.

And just who wouldn’t want that?

But it’s funny how so many people can know you

and would do anything to be you,

but you feel lonelier than ever before.

Like an injured cherry barb, stopping in the middle of his school.

No one is noticing—everyone just keeps swimming,

so he waits, twisting and turning in the currents

and the fins that manipulate him.

And he lets it happen,

ending up even more hurt than before. 

All I am is a pretty face,

a powerless pretty face

on the highway, going 90 with 

a broken emergency brake.

My words are as helpless as

the stop signs I tried to post.

The red lights my mother ignored.

The unbuckled seat belt that failed to protect me

when I fly overboard.

When it’s too late to stop.

Cathryn Murray ‘28

I wrote this poem after watching the Brooke Shields’ documentary, ‘Pretty Baby.’ Her life was unique in the sense that her surface-level appearance took control of her existence, in terms of her career and how she was treated from a young age. I found this idea thought-provoking and decided to write a poem from her point of view.