The poem is a pile of orders, the kind of voices a young woman, judging by the poem's subject, might hear every day. The commands come fast and then undo themselves: don't wear makeup, then you need makeup; don't bully, be honest, then you can do both. Be sweet, but not a pushover. Be firm, but not rude. Even hair color gets a verdict, with brunette and auburn dismissed and blondes said to "do it best." There is no right answer, because the rules keep changing.
The speaker never says "I feel trapped," but the feeling comes through in the form. The short, clipped lines pile up like nagging, and the lack of any reply makes the pressure seem inescapable. The line "Its crooked. / Just like yourself" turns criticism of a shirt into criticism of a person. The mood is tense, tiring, and quietly angry. The last two lines, "Fix societys wants" and "Fit in societys wants," show the impossible task: fix the world's demands, and fit into them too.