February Flex

Between the iron's echo, seven moons have shaped this flesh to tempered steel—each rep a whispered vow, a calculus of sweat where discipline escapes the ghost of who I was. The mirror shows me now: a shadow split in two—one clawing from the past, one carving forward, raw, through protein, rest, and grind. The weights don’t judge the why, just measure what will last: this body, not a shrine, but proof of mind aligned with mornings yet to come. I lift what time can’t hold— not abs or arms, but will, the ache beneath the bone that asks, "What’s worth the pain?" The answer’s still unrolled: to outlift doubt, to build a self I’ve never known. -