Expectations

As I lay on the floor in fetal position, I scratch my cheek and watch the golden flecks fall like snow on frozen pavements.

I  feel hollow as I struggle to mass produce such a beautiful material, and my soul yearns at the thought of freedom from this hellish era.

In such a submissive position I begin to feel these expectations weighing on me.

Whispering obloquies in my ears, and striking hot lashes of worry across my spine.

This unbearable pain and anxiety is enough to make me crave relief from my own body.

I want release from my current situation, and freedom from the constant expectation to mutilate my own flesh.

Grind my nails against the soft caramel skin to reveal a shine of color and wealth greater than any other.

“These expectations were meant to make you, not break you,” they say.

“As time passes and you battle with your subconscious, you will become a stronger person, one worthy of facing the world as a beautiful and unbreakable woman.”

But the pain seems unbearable sometimes, and I often wound the gold that I am supposed to become.

I taint that perfect caramel complexion which I claw away at to reveal that beautiful gold, but is all this suffering really worth the end result?

Who mutilates their own flesh without fear of mutilating their mind and sanity?

I seem to be the only one afraid of what is to come after I’ve clawed away all of this caramel coating to reveal that golden interior.