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The Body That is Lived In

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. 

We tend to be so caught up in our perfections that we forget the beauty of imperfections, of being simply human.

  • Megan E. Geiler is a freshman studying Anthropology with a focus on Archaeology, and a minor in Native American Studies. She hopes to work on future excavation sites around the world and eventually settle down in the mountains with her significant other and future pets.

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