Hair loosely strung into the lowest of ponies, strands dangling, 

Nails with splotches of paint and dirt lining the inside, crooked on the edges; 

Cheeks flushed red with tiny moles, fuzz littering the bottom of my chin, 

Teeth with white specks and yellow splotches revealed with the curl of lips-dimples dancing. 

For this body is lived in. 

 

Feet bruised and battered; heels blistered over and over again, 

Legs doused in mosquito bites, childhood scars, and endless summer nights, 

Back illuminated in birthmarks—red scratches from vigorous itching, moles, pimples, and all; 

Arms prickled over with thin hair, bumps of muscle on my biceps, and more moles. 

For this body is lived in. 

 

Stumbling down hills in water-soaked shoes, 

Bleeding hair dye, mismatched on each side, 

One lazy eyelid—the other stitched as a child, 

Ankles sore and tender to touch, 

Sharpie-rubbed fingertips and cracks on my lips, 

For this body is lived in. 

 

As the mirror looks back, I am not ashamed. 

No spray-tan-soaked skin, 

No hair appointment to fix split ends, 

No product to tame my waves, 

No concealer caking pimples, 

No reason to hide— 

For this body is lived in.