First You're a Slave to the Education System, Then to the Corporations

It’s often hard to say who I am.

How could I?

When I sometimes don’t even know myself.

I am a woman, age of nineteen.

That is for sure.

I’m full Mexican on both sides.

I don’t speak the native tongue,

That is for sure.

A daughter.

A sister.

A granddaughter.

A cousin.

A niece.

A girlfriend.

A friend.

A student.

These are all external.

They say I have charm.

That I’m loyal and reliable.

My dimples are rather cute.

I’m smart.

I’m humorous.

Internally, though.

I sense who I actually may be.

A well-kept machine.

That keeps pumping out every bit of productivity.

I never get a rest.

Everyday,

I have to keep them coming.

It’s expected of me to.

They are all counting on me.

Quantity and quality.

No errors.

Only number one products.

I clock in every day,

Then leave every day.

Sometimes I even work night shifts.

My eyes red and heavy.

I got bags under them to prove it.

Then the whole cycle starts again.

Rinse and repeat.

This is my function.

Every day.

Forever.

And what reward do I receive in return for my slaved away hours?

For my anxiety.

For my stresses.

Nothing, that’s what.

Except for more work.