Dear World

At school, I store every last bit of information and produce sheet after sheet of monotonous data.
I am a machine.
At work, I must only ever be useful.
I am a tool.
In public, I dress up to be compared to every other girl.
I am a product.

In privacy I peel myself, chipping away at personality so that I may uncover "perfect", tearing away characteristics so that I may reveal "beautiful"
Inside, I battle against the beast called the heart

Teachers, managers, suitors: Oppressors.
Power, money, vanity: Tethers.

Tell me how this "perfect" being will heed and have all three
And yet the imperfect heart instinctively transcends power, money, and vanity
To develop happiness, wisdom, and love.

Tell me how I will advance in my career to make more money to put food on the table for my offspring, but never have the time away from work to feed their starving hearts.
How they will notice mommy's high-ranking position and associate her with authority rather than maternity.
Show me what a man wants to see so that I may mimic the girls in the magazines, choose any suitor I desire, and file for divorce ten years later when my fakened face has wrinkled and he's found another "perfect".

Tell me how after my heart has had enough and stops its pointless beating, I want my life's successes to be represented at my funeral by subordinate employees speaking, dry-eyed, of the amounts of money I possessed and how I sacrificed everything for it
Instead of long-time friends and offspring eyes, clones of mine, tearing up as they recall how in a world of "perfect" ugly, I led a different life that no amount of money could buy.

Sincerely,
Sinite