The Watched

The lens sits in the corner of the room,

a small black eye that never looks away.

I come here every morning for the boom

of weight and effort. Now I feel the spray

of being watched. The camera sees me move.

I see the camera. The loop is tight.

My shoulders pull back as if to prove

I deserve to take up space and light.

I adjust my grip. I adjust my stance.

I perform for the lens without knowing

I'm performing. Every rep, a dance

for someone I won't see. Every showing

of effort is a document now.

The eye doesn't blink. The eye doesn't care.

I'm never private here, and I don't know how

to unknow that I'm always on display there.

The thing I thought was mine—this hour, this sweat—

was always being seen. I'm a file.

I'm a body being watched. I'm the debt

I owe the lens. I'm its profile.