But whose watching?

But whose watching?


Squats, deadlifts, kale juices

Toned legs and the inner voice that says “Move it!”

But for whose hands?


Flowy dresses that move in the wind

Heels high enough that you can’t spin

But for whose eyes?


Mask of paint that streaks with sweat

Mouth stained  from threat

But for whose lips?


Yet, through all the process

When it looks like I’ve lost it

The hands are the owner’s

The eyes are mere donors

The lips don’t separate

In fear of their true fate.




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