The Shape I’m Told I Need To Be

I wake each day and wonder
what shape am I supposed to take today?
Thin enough to disappear,
soft enough to comfort,
strong enough to hold the world,
but never too much of anything.

I am told to be beautiful,
but not to care too much about beauty.
To wear the mask of effortless perfection,
to hide the hours spent erasing myself
just to become something worth looking at.

My face must be smooth,
my body curved but controlled,
my hair falling like a waterfall,
not wild rivers, but streams tamed
to flow where they’re wanted.

Even the way I stand,
the way I move,
is measured by unseen rules
I never agreed to follow.

And when I try to be myself,
to break free from the mirror,
to be… something raw, untamed,
the voices still follow:

"Be softer."
"Be quieter."
"Be better."
And I try.
God knows how I try.

But no matter what I do,
I am always too much,
and never enough.
The weight of it presses down on me,
the expectations,
the impossible standards.

I carry them like stones in my chest,
grinding away at who I might have been
if I were allowed to just be.
But I am told that’s selfish too.
To want to exist outside the mold.
To be seen for who I am
instead of what I should be.

What if I’m not enough?
What if I never will be?
I am a woman,
and I’ve spent my life
trying to fit into spaces
too small for me.
And I wonder.
Will I ever stop shrinking?