Reflections of Borrowed Flesh

In the gym's harsh glow, I trace my form,

a borrowed vessel wrapped in stretchy seams—

each lift pulls harder on a weight I don’t own,

as if the muscles around me bend to fit a mold,

in whispered words, too close yet far away:

‘Do you feel real in that skin you wear?’

I catch a glimpse in the cracked mirror,

tired eyes searching for someone they once knew,

reflected in shadows, skin feels like glass,

and my bones ache for a life never lived, still,

a stranger in borrowed flesh,

just another fleeting shape in the weight of days.