I feel as if my body is under constant scrutinization.
Nit picked, observed, distorted, stretched out, narrowed down.
Eyes glare at it and pick it apart wherever it goes.
Every aspect of it is dissected and inspected. Always disapproved.
It's always too big, too puffy, too round, or too small, too skeletal,
and disappointingly flat.
There's never a happy middle ground — where it is looked at with
admiration and respect.
It feels pressured to mold, bend, and do whatever its inspectors tell it to do.
It wants nothing more to please the eye and be approved of.
It is stuck trying to make its observers happy, but time and time
again it has proven to be impossible.
It never feels comfortable since it is under constant pressure to
achieve this hopeless feat.
It longs to escape from the inspector's grip of unrealistic expectations.
One day it will be free and chase only after whatever it wants itself to be.