Your Body Is Not A Productivity Tool

You wake up and check your phone before your brain even boots
scrolling through everybody’s highlight reels like a punishment routine
Compare their gym selfies, promotion posts
spotless kitchens
and sunrise runs to the way you are half tangled in sheets that have not seen a washer in weeks and smell like caffeine
You call yourself lazy for needing ten more minutes
twenty, an hour

for laying there arguing with your own bones about getting up
Blame your body for not bouncing, for not grinding
for not running on hustle and positive quotes poured into that chipped cup.
You talk about your legs like machines that should carry you through twelve hour shifts without complaint
no ache, no tremor, no bruise
Talk about your back like it betrayed you when it finally gave out after years of chairs that tilt wrong and bosses who think pain is an excuse
You count calories like sins and hours worked like redemption

as if the point of your bones is to keep punching a clock till they crack
As if this skin only matters when it is stretched over muscles built just to keep you on track.
They taught you early that rest is a prize you earn after you bleed for some faceless crowd
That if your body breaks under pressure it must mean you were built faulty
not that the pressure was too loud
I want to stand between you and that nonsense like a guard and say this out loud.

Your body is not a productivity tool
not a machine on lease from someone else who checks your mileage and demands more
It is a soft, stubborn animal that wants food, water
touch, sleep, sunlight, music
not just spreadsheets and sore
You do not have to justify its aches and limits with bullet points and graphs on a board
Your body is not a productivity tool, it is your home

your instrument, your stubborn beating heart.
You call your stomach lazy for holding fat after a year that nearly killed you
for not shrinking on command
Call your immune system weak for catching every cold while you burn both ends of every candle in your hand
You hate your shaking hands when panic hits
ignore the fact that those same hands hold other people steady when they fall
Your heart pounds like a skin to keep you from danger

you curse it for racing in crowds while it is just trying to answer your call.
Imagine talking to a friend the way you talk to your own lungs
calling them useless for wheezing on stairs after months of smoke and stress
Imagine calling someone you love a disappointment for needing breaks
naps, gentleness, You would never
but somehow your own body receives that cruelty like it is just business.

your instrument, your stubborn beating heart.
One day you will look back at photos from this era and barely remember the tasks but see the dark circles and the forced grin
You will want to wrap your younger self in blankets and say “lie down
you do not owe anyone this much of your skin
” Start practicing that care now
not someday when some imaginary quota is met and someone else decides you win
Feed the animal you live inside, let it stretch

let it rest, treat it kindly from within.
Your body is not a productivity tool
it will never be happy as nothing but a vehicle for grind
It is the way you dance, make love, cry
laugh till your ribs hurt, hug friends, pet dogs
flip off the world, change your mind
You are allowed to stop when your bones say stop

to rest without treating yourself like you fell behind
Your body is not a productivity tool
it is the one loyal thing that stayed with you through every kind of grind.
Next time you call yourself worthless for needing a day on the couch while the world keeps spinning in someone else’s rule
Touch your chest, feel that thump
and whisper this under your breath, “I am not a machine
I am people, my body is not a productivity tool.”