poetry

46

expectations:

society sets the standards,
a list were told to meet,
they say beauty is everything
a lie wrapped up so neat.

they show us painted faces,
and bodies carved just so,
and tell us to fit the image,
or fade into the shadows.

they promise well be perfect,
if we starve or if we change,
if we cut ourselves to pieces,
and mold what they arrange.

but beauty is a cruel lie,
a game were meant to lose,
no matter how we twist ourselves,
were told were born to bruise.

so we carve ourselves with desperation,
and wear their shame like skin,
searching for a comfort,
in a world that wont let us in.

we try to find the answers
in mirrors stained with doubt,
cutting deeper with every glance,
trying to carve the pain out.

our bodies become battlegrounds,
for a war we never chose,
a war against the expectations,
and the hatred that they sow.

we bleed because were broken,
because the scars feel like control,
because when we try to find ourselves,
all we see are empty holes.

and every time we change for them,
every time we bend and break,
they tell us were not enough,
that our efforts are a mistake.

so we retreat into our darkness,
where the pain becomes our voice,
where self-destruction is the language,
that gives us back a choice.

they never see the damage,
the cost of their demands,
or the way we try to disappear
with blood upon our hands.

were left to drown in silence,
in a world that asks for more,
and beauty becomes a prison
with an ever-closing door.

so if they ask why we are hurting,
why weve learned to wear this scar,
its because we tried to be what they wanted,
but they said wed never go far.