No Degen

Kan Ren Jie

“Think of the food you eat as calories not to be burned, but as fuel.”

But I cannot. The flabby curl, thighs tightening
round a glistening shame: the ghost

a curve I think
of the body as broken. I think of suppers

as coping. The self as undeserving of rest.
Each evening I burn myself in rounds.

400 metres of penance. 800 metres
is absolution. A thousand reaches

transcendence. I burn weakness:
rumours of a stomach ghastly, twisted

in curls from head to abdomen. Displaced, gutted
from skin. From my window I see

these barren sprouts: skinless narcissism
blooming in NParks blossoms. Seed packets

sullied by my impatience. For my arms
tethered me to existence. My worth

was in a bicep curl; value floating
in these graph lines:

red-blue a tricep, clusters
in the creaking of paleo-diet bones,

like towels wringing fat. Yet weakness screams internal,
Too small. Not well-toned.

1600: forget my awkward silence. Pardon
the muted microphones. Cleanse

the rambling work call. Clinging to sweat
I stain concrete. I stain my thighs, dripping

in self-pity, contortions that flab
in half-hearted defeat. Three days ago

I heard of fresh graduates forming Telegram groups,
an admirable attempt at productivity.

Circuit Breaker No Degen, they called them.
I am my own group. I scream

in every pace. I yell at a body
for movement. The arpeggio of a zoom call

a brittle alarm, a sergeant demanding
more. Yet I still feel atrophy.

My swivel chair bleeds daily in yellowing lines:
the sweat, a musk for anxiety. Muscles,

thin as reeds, like shards before the burning. I imagine
my punishment. I imagine the penance

of boundless runs. No Degen pushing every stride.
No Degen for hours on end. No Degen,
to calories. No Degen, as blisters form,
eyelids glazed with the tearing. We burn for the future.