I like the color of your skin.
I do, you know.
I like the way it's so pale as to be translucent.
I like the way it's as dark as a velvety nighttime sky.
I like the creaminess, it looks like your skin is made of milk chocolate. Delicious.
And you, you are brown, with a hint of red, like autumn leaves.
I like the color of your skin.
Please don't mind when I tell you this.
I like the way it reminds me of olives or licorice or milk or honey or smoke or sunlight or gold or clouds.
I like the way it reflects, or absorbs, the light.
I like how it is soft and rough. I like how it looks on you. You wear it well.
I like the color of your skin.
Why can't I say this to everyone I meet? Why do you look at me first with fear before you blush at my compliment? You wouldn't do that if I said you have pretty eyes.
I like the color of your skin. And if you can accept that about me then we can change the world.
I wrote this when I was in fifth grade. I got an A.