Pressed into patterns no one will ever fit,
Holding on to the characteristics far too close nit.

It is hard to define what we see in a heart,
Often left searching for the broken part.

Chained to the pain of our own design,
Always unsure if we can change our minds.

Never truly seeing how much they were taking,
Of a broken heart, they were in charge of breaking.

Yet, we do not fit into tiny little molds,
To be conformed to what another's vision holds.

Only wanting to be our self and be truly loved,
Because a woman should not fit like a splinter, but tight like a glove.