I wanted to spill at her what I felt in all my favorite colors, cross my heart and hope to die (with a twelve year old's hand pressed on a yet flat chest). She's sat right in front of me, back straight as a ruler and with some leftover sunshine spun in her hair, flooding the hollow of her neck, making her collarbones deep lakes of gold when she accidentally faced me. This was always a strange view to the puppy-fat-short me, her front curves and the shadows of her were unexplored landscapes of spotty skin to me. I've only ever saw her from behind, functioning as a thick shadow that followed her everywhere but melted into nothing once she noticed the grease of Me licking and soaking up her feet.
Don't get me wrong, when behind her, I have never felt the need to follow the arch of her back lower and lower until I'd be considered a pervert, down to the purplish garden of her voluptuous skirt and thin ankles. I just existed behind her in algebra and art class, not studying numbers or painters though. My papers and tests were always clear, except for the times i copied the solitary crowd of moles on her right shoulder, during June, with a pen I stole without feelings of guilt. I knew the shape of her neck by heart, better than one hundred and twelve multiplied by three anyways.
I learnt to compare and shamelessly enjoy our painful differences, not missing a chance to pinch on my fat when she leaned over and I could almost feel the bumps of her fragile spine under my palm covered with a layer of sweat. Her paper thin translucent skin compared to mine that's always been dry, elegant back with budding angel wings whenever she wore a dress compared to my acne, soundless coughs in the winter against my runny nose and teary eyes.
I. Just. Could. Not. Concentrate.
She won over the education system with just her back, or maybe I've lost in life.
When the teacher's voice flooded the room in rasp tilts of famous names (with bad pronunciation), I was probably connecting the Monet Moles on the back of her neck in weird shapes, hoping someday she'd turn around and see through the uncomfortable crust of Me, only to see the Me that adored her, the way twelve year olds do. And while the teacher who's name sounded like smoke coughed out her name softly (I shivered), my own name felt icky like when you're doing the dishes and the naivety of your fingertips meets what used to be dinner. My skin was never not itching. It was often so hard I hoped it would burst, get rid of all the pinks and reds and blacks, maybe even the yellows she wore so often.
I wanted to tell her how I feel in between numbers and stains of yellow but how could I tell an i love you with a mealy-mouthed lisp to a pair of eyes, a pair of rose petal lips, freckle-peppered nose and cheeks instead to a constellation of clueless moles?
Back straight as a ruler, my voice drowning in everyone's elses voice, her confused look that I wanted to mistake for an interested one so badly, brown eyes with stars stuffed into them, their shade leaning towards surrealism.
I said can you lend me the blue and she bared sharp teeth, reaching for some indigo and the sky shrinked into a can. Bite me, I wanted to say to her shark teeth as I painted a double colored sky, leaving sea and sky under my fingernails. She turned around, giving me back my usual view con-des-cen-din-gly (my twelve year old self also had issues with spelling), and put her hair, free of sunshine, into a soft messy nest, securing it with dry brushes and in process killing the birds I imagined living in there, silencing their cries.
Nipping on the blue from under my nails, I've decided that: tommorow, I'll sit somewhere else in art, somewhere where connecting the dots won't make me fall in love. I cannot draw straight lines anymore, someone please lead my hand! Maybe it's okay though, her hair's naturally wavy.
I hope she doesn't know my name. Maybe she'll forever associate me with the name of Anna or Charlotte or something like that, something that sounds like her Van Gogh clothes and baroque cheeks.
(I still kind of love her, cross my heart and hope to die)