They weighed you like produce, inked the time,
A bracelet snapped around your wrist.
Your mother signed the discharge line.
By noon—did you even exist?

They stamped your folder, filed your scores,
The hallway swallowed up your shout.
You colored neatly in the lines.
Each planned hour carved you out.

They owned your back, you clocked your hours,
A lanyard tightening on your neck.
You traded daylight in their towers.
Did you exist between the checks?

The fluorescent hum became your hymn,
The inbox swelled, the hours bled.
You ate your lunch beside the screen.
They didn’t notice you were dead.

They gave you credit, called it yours,
The plastic warmth inside your hand.
You swiped your way through waiting doors.
The debt was yours. As they had planned.

The mirror tallied what you’d lost,
The gray a ledger in your hair.
You searched your face for someone else.
The stranger blinked and held your stare.

They weighed you out the way you came,
A tag around your toe this time.
The room already knew your name.
It had been waiting all this time.

The system won. It always does.
The list outlives the names it keeps.
The fluorescent lights still hum and buzz.
The next shift clocks for what it reaps.