Hi, I’m Kim, Kimberly Burns being my given birth name. If we are to be friends, which I hope we are, you will never call me Kimberly. Why do I hear you ask? Because it’s just like Kimberly and Mikado to everyone, yeah, I know, get it out of your system, the biscuit, no, honestly, I’ve never had that sung to me before. See what I mean you couldn’t help yourself, could you? Seriously though besides the unfortunate name, I’m just a regular, run of the mill, teenage girl. I wouldn’t describe myself as an oil painting, more of a doodle. I’m not in the popular group. I have three friends that I would call good mates and that’s it. Yep, nothing extraordinary here, average looks, average brain, average life, and then wham -
He hit me right between the eyes
love, at first sight, I couldn’t disguise
I’ll follow the prompting of my heart
he may be the one from which I don’t part
“Oh, he’s beautiful!” I unwittingly exclaim, out loud, of course, no, much better for me, aside whispers to myself that would be way too classy. I gazed adoringly at the anything but average being in front of me. “Who is he?”
I’m thirteen and have just experienced my first taste of those most human of hungers that of need, lust, longing, and desire. I am riveted, my brain is screaming, turn away, now, but my hormones are latched onto those glorious blue as the ocean eyes. Then there are the blond curls haphazardly falling to just above his shoulders, and a smile that could melt igloos. I can feel Samantha tensing beside me, and me for the first time ever realize that I am resenting her presence. Those eyes make my spine tingle and I feel as if my legs have lost contact with the ground and I can float. I am riveted, my little brain is screaming, turn away now, but my hormones are latched onto those eyes.
How can eyelashes be that long? No amount of mascara I could use, not that I ever chose to, as I never understood its necessity except to keep debris out until right now, would match their length and thickness. If I could pick what I could look at for the rest of my life, it would be them.
I kiss him a thousand times with my eyes
hoping that one day his lips will reply
He is also going up my attractiveness scale simply because he is holding in his beautiful, long, but not effeminate hands, a poetry book, my oh my, someone interesting at last. I drag myself slowly back to earth but can feel myself melting and to hide my discomfort, do what I always do insert my head into the nearest book available. I like to read and write so having a book at hand is never a problem. I am stuck betwixt being an introvert and wanting to be a famous writer. I say stuck only because been introverted means I’m not a natural mixer and need all the info and life experiences I can get in order to write about them.
I’m a rhymer at heart, find it great fun, but trying to stretch myself lately with free verse and short stories but I haven’t a novel in me, not yet anyway.
I have never had any romantic interest in fellas unless he is downloadable to a poetry or writing site, I have no interest, unlike my supposedly teenage counterparts. I have been told unless I experience love myself that I will never be a true romantic writer. What twaddle; has the author who writes the latest murder or thriller committed murder? I think not, well one would hope not anyway. It would certainly make his book more believable, but could it only be sold in the true crime section? I wish my mother had called me Paige Turner or something, prophetic I would have hoped and certainly tickles my funny side.
Unfortunately, I am in a dark, humorous period, my tastes can vary and the title that he would right now be reading, if he is still looking this way, is ‘Living with my Child Rearing Thighs’ or something by Miss Spent Time. With my head resolutely stuck I’m not moving it now I think of how he looks like a bad boy, in other words, a fabulous cheeky smile and a devil-may-care glint in those, did I already say, fabulicious eyes.
Agnes is hanging off him this must be her latest conquest. I gawked at my friend’s sister’s boyfriend with envy filled eyes. I could not stand her, how the hell did she get him? She’s two years older than him for a start, he’s fourteen at most I’m guessing, and that makes him not legal, doesn’t it? What does she think she is a cougar or something? The absolute state of her? I’m scarlet for her.
Samantha’s staring at me quizzically a sardonic smirk on her face.
“Oh, for flip sake, not you as well, I have to put up with her constantly mooning over that bleeding yoke and now you’ve gone and joined his fan club. That’s decent conversation gone out the window, you’ll be as bad as she is. Ollie this and Ollie that.”
What’s she talking about? Can’t she see what her sister and I see? He’s perfection. There’s not a thing I would change. I’m not going to even bother acknowledging that statement. You could never call this gorgeous being a yoke. I’m concerned for her. She must have an eye problem; she needs to go to Spec Savers or something. How can she not moon over the eyes that are deeper and bluer than the ocean, blond curls, and I just know our babies will be gorrgggeeeous.
I look over at them holding hands, entranced, giggling and I’m consumed with the most heart-wrenching, all-consuming feeling of jealousy. I can’t believe the anger and upset that surges through my body, uncontrollable and unstoppable. The only colour you could paint me right now is green, snarling, biting and spiteful, malignant, snotty green. How ridiculous, I’ve never even spoken to him.
I decide right then that I am going to get him, he’s going to be mine, I’m much more suited to him. Agnes is too cold a creature for this Adonis, he needs passion and drama to match his movie-star looks.
My every thought and wish are you
if it wasn’t what would I do?