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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.

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