Pressure

I want to share, but I don't know if it's allowed.

The sweat trickles along my skin, as I read the status aloud.

What will they think of me? Will they understand?

What if I'm not good enough? Will it make sense when read, as it does aloud?

Trying to wear makeup never goes well, as my hands won't stop to shake.

No matter how many deep breaths I take, my nerves still think they are allowed.

Are my cheeks too red? Is my eye-liner smudged? Some people may understand the labyrinth of beauty, but I continue to get lost in the tutorials fired aloud.

I scrutinize my reflection, with the fat rolling under my chin.

Wearing a dress so slim is something I will never be allowed.

My thin-waisted friends make everything seem easy, choosing cupcakes over apples.

Having unhealthy food taste so good shouldn't even be allowed.

The pressure comes from the inside, as much as it does the out.

Like a spring lily that soon discovers that a lack of water is simply not allowed.