“We’re all art,”the teacher said oncestanding at the front of the room
like she’d cracked open something profound
“Just different versions of it.”
And I remember looking at her
thinking maybe she was right
Because if she’s art
then she’s watercolor
Soft edges
Careful hands
Colors that bleed into each other slowlyLike she was always trying
To make ugly things beautiful
And me?
I think I’m charcoal
Messy
Heavy
The kind that smudges onto everythingEven when you try to hold it carefully
The kind that ruins clean hands
Because that’s what I did to her
I touched her life
And suddenly she carried pieces of me everywhere
In her hoodies
Her notebooks
The songs she stopped skipping
The hallways she walks quieter through now
And God
I notice it too
I see myself in places
I don’t deserve to still exist in
Then there’s her
Sharpie girl
Permanent in the loudest ways
Strong enough to write over anything
Even truth
She walks into rooms
Like she’s never done anything wrong
And somehow
People still hand her clean paper
And I let her write over everything
Over old conversations
Over memories
Over the version of me
That loved watercolor honestly
Because sharpie is easier
It covers mistakes faster
And maybe that says something awful about me
Because watercolor needed patienceNeeded gentleness
Needed someone willing to let things dry slowly
But one wrong move
One blurred line
And I panicked
I told myself
She was too sensitive
Too emotional
Too much responsibility
When really
She just cared enough
To make me feel guilty for hurting her
So I washed my hands of it
Of her
And watercolor came off easily
At least that’s what I told myself
But that’s the thing about watercolor—It stains too
Just quieter
It settles into paper fibers
So deep
You can’t pull it back out
Without ruining the whole page
And she’s still everywhere
In the way I hesitate before saying certain things
In the songs I can’t listen to anymore
In every girl I compare to her accidentally
Because once you’ve been loved gentlyEverything else feels loud
And maybe art does have versions
Different textures
Different values
But stains are stains
And no matter how many layers I paint over her with
I still see her underneath
May 21
May 21, 2026 at 9:12 PM UTC
“We’re all art,”the teacher said oncestanding at the front of the room
like she’d cracked open something profound
“Just different versions of it.”
And I remember looking at her
thinking maybe she was right
Because if she’s art
then she’s watercolor
Soft edges
Careful hands
Colors that bleed into each other slowlyLike she was always trying
To make ugly things beautiful
And me?
I think I’m charcoal
Messy
Heavy
The kind that smudges onto everythingEven when you try to hold it carefully
The kind that ruins clean hands
Because that’s what I did to her
I touched her life
And suddenly she carried pieces of me everywhere
In her hoodies
Her notebooks
The songs she stopped skipping
The hallways she walks quieter through now
And God
I notice it too
I see myself in places
I don’t deserve to still exist in
Then there’s her
Sharpie girl
Permanent in the loudest ways
Strong enough to write over anything
Even truth
She walks into rooms
Like she’s never done anything wrong
And somehow
People still hand her clean paper
And I let her write over everything
Over old conversations
Over memories
Over the version of me
That loved watercolor honestly
Because sharpie is easier
It covers mistakes faster
And maybe that says something awful about me
Because watercolor needed patienceNeeded gentleness
Needed someone willing to let things dry slowly
But one wrong move
One blurred line
And I panicked
I told myself
She was too sensitive
Too emotional
Too much responsibility
When really
She just cared enough
To make me feel guilty for hurting her
So I washed my hands of it
Of her
And watercolor came off easily
At least that’s what I told myself
But that’s the thing about watercolor—It stains too
Just quieter
It settles into paper fibers
So deep
You can’t pull it back out
Without ruining the whole page
And she’s still everywhere
In the way I hesitate before saying certain things
In the songs I can’t listen to anymore
In every girl I compare to her accidentally
Because once you’ve been loved gentlyEverything else feels loud
And maybe art does have versions
Different textures
Different values
But stains are stains
And no matter how many layers I paint over her with
I still see her underneath
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