Gym Bros and Cardio Queens

This is the temple of the selfie, a sanctuary where worship means flexing in the mirror and counting reps like holy beads,
Rows of treadmills, benches, squat racks–all props for the pageantry of muscle and sweat,
He’s benching three plates for the camera, she’s spinning just long enough for the story–
Nobody here’s working out for themselves, it’s all a contest of attention, a pageant of abs and brand-name tights,
The air is thick with protein powder and judgment, every glance a competition, every glance a threat,
Lululemon and Gymshark are uniforms, not gear,
And the real exercise is keeping up with the Joneses,
With every like and every follow more valuable than any calorie burned,
He’s not lifting for strength, she’s not running for stamina–they’re here to win at being seen,
It’s an arms race with no finish line,
The fit are getting fitter, the insecure are getting filtered,
And everyone’s working harder to avoid being vulnerable than they are to break a sweat.

Underneath it all, nobody’s fooled–
We know it’s a circus, but we show up anyway,
Play our parts, fake our progress, tell ourselves that if we look good enough, maybe we’ll finally feel enough,
But the truth is, we’re chasing ghosts–
A perfection that doesn’t exist,
A dream sold by influencers and paid ads,
And in the quiet after the gym closes, when the mirrors are dark,
Everyone’s just as lonely, just as unfulfilled as when they started,
Maybe one day, we’ll drop the mask,
Let the sweat be real, let the work mean something more than a pose,
But until then, we’re all in the same loop–
Flexing, posing, chasing validation and pretending it’s fitness.