The shell of her was molded,
Twisted and painted and chiseled
By the impossible standards the cruel world had set for her.

She learned to never question what was asked of her,
Her opinion merely an ignorant statement in defiance of greater truths.
She grew to know her duty
Of keeping her legs open and mouth closed,
For if she didn’t she would so easily be replaced by a girl who would fulfill these expectations
Without question.
She was reminded daily to keep the sculpture she was
Perfect
For if she were to gain a pound in the wrong place, or fall anything short of Barbie doll proportions
She would be worthless.
Curl her lashes, bleach her hair
Squeeze into something tight
So that she might be valuable,
Indispensable.

To society she is another pretty face –
To men, a trophy.
But every night, she wipes the makeup off and slips out of her façade
And her brokenness leaves her vulnerable,
Raw.
The consistent criticism seeping through her shell blinds her,
Leaving her unrecognizable to even herself.
Her innocence intact, her morality staring her in the face;
She had given up her identity for the satisfaction of those close to her,
For the girl had more love for the people in her life
Than she had for herself.

Every night she slips into a dreamless sleep and awakens at daylight
To mold and twist,
Paint and chisel
The sculpture she was all over again –
Her hand guided by a force not her own
But of the world’s.