Pressure begins at an early age, the molding of me, number eight
As I am taught to become everything I could never be.
Subtle encouragements came in the form of secret whispered words
As your minds weighing scales formulated unnerving comments.
For you never saw shame in calling someone “fat”
For you never saw shame in calling me names.
The focus is on physicality, told how I should wear my hair
As uninvited hands combed their way through it
Groping at me, pulling at me, “Come here when I’m talking to you!”
Certain, “unladylike” habits oppressed until forgotten.
I was always a good student until I grew up. And out.
Breaking the boundaries of your idea of perfect but only after
Buckling under your pressure at thirteen, fifteen, seventeen.
Learning for myself that I could not do this anymore
I am not another project for you to project yourself onto.
So today, you no longer are allowed know who I am.
I’ve become everything you hate, and I’m unsure if that was on purpose.
I’m learning everything again as I struggle to ignore the weight on my shoulders
That Big Brother eye watching and disapproving
As I brave the consequences of your grave expectations.