However, they ignored the path towards it. Like much a rose bush, she shaped herself to perfection, culling her thorns.
Everything that was ugly about her was diminished. She adhered to a strict routine, made to enhance her natural beauty.
She obeyed it, holding back her discomfort. Roses didn't wilt, even under pressure. Neither could she, humiliating herself.
There she remained, as lovely as a rose. Only she knew her bloom was bittersweet, an illusion shaped by control and shame.