Groomed for the Algorithm
She spins in neon, pixel-perfect, a body staged beneath synthetic light,
Mascara painted with the precision of commerce,
innocence blurred into night.Applause scrolls upward, swipes assign her worth,
Her youth devoured by the lens—curated hunger,
broadcast birth.Words like “empowerment” mask the thirst in every view,
Behind each bold hashtag, the ritual is always new.A minor paraded,
merchandised to feed the screens,
Packaged youth offered up in prepubescent scenes.
Parents recite the mantras, “She’s building a brand,”Sponsors dissect every angle,
contracts drafted by invisible hands.Pigtails tied for engagement,
clothes selected for trend,
The market curves her smile, filters her every bend.What’s
called family pride is a pitch for unseen buyers,
Every stranger scrolling is an ember in the fire.She learns the moves
that make adults pay,
Still too young to understand what each viral day will take away.
This isn’t childhood, it’s inventory—every laugh a product line,
A corporate algorithm that parses youth for the highest sign.Not a playground,
not a memory, not a choice,
But a branded silhouette, a profit in a child’s voice.They monetize her skin,
monetize her tears,
Outfits tailored to trend, likes exchanged for fears.No
protection behind the account, just permission slips and cash,
Childhood re-engineered as commodity, innocence slashed.
Praises are heaped as the view count spikes,
While silence suffocates each question that the data likes.No one intervenes,
no one interferes,
While the audience multiplies,
doubling her years.Strength is projected on every sponsored frame,
But silence is currency—no one’s to blame.They worship the brand,
but ignore the bruise,
Every click a contract for the trauma she can’t refuse.
Expression, they claim, but I track obsession’s path—Predators embedded deep in comment’s aftermath.They named it growth, called it viral grace,But
consent can’t be coded, can’t be traced on a face.It’s collapse written in numbers,
wrapped in sweet design,A secret auction for every childhood sign.
Groomed for profit, engineered for trust,Built on shame,
wrapped in lust.Not a rebel, not a prodigy, not a star—Just a child, commodified,
sold from afar.Each click, each view,
each shallow heart—Another nail in the coffin of a stolen start.