I’ve hated the color pink for as long as I can remember.
A brief phase of liking up to the age of 4
then nothing but
cold, steely hatred towards the color.
Baby pink, hot pink, coral, rose,
none if it was ever something I liked.
It was always a color
for the friends I couldn’t make
for the person I couldn’t be
for the daughter I never was
for girls
not for me.
I passed by pink clothing while I
dragged my reluctant feet through the girl’s
section of Target where it was always
too pink to be worn
too pink to look at
too pink to enjoy
too pink...

too pink.

But for all my hatred of the color,
it has become one of my colors.
Barely-there blue,
palest pink and
whisper-thin white are the colors
that create the flag I wave
anytime I get the chance to.
The lightest colors on the strongest flag,
standing tall in the wind like an actor on stage.

Blue
pink
white
pink
blue
the five bands in the flag
the five letters in my name
the five friends I told first
the five adults who knew
the five hoodies I rotated through
when my body grew
and it wasn’t right anymore
and I needed to hide it all away
it always comes back to
blue
pink
white
pink
blue,
the colors reflecting
a mirror of white straight down the middle.

There’s still a large part of me that hates the color pink,
still a large part of me that associates the color with
fake, false, suffocating feelings of
the person I could never be and
never will be rather than
the strength I take from the
blue
pink
white
pink
blue
that litters my life,
and now that my limbs are longer
and my body has grown in ways it was
never supposed to
the women’s section in Target,
rather than the girl’s,
full of clothing my mom loves
and I loathe
is more terrifying
than the sound of footsteps in a dark empty hall.

But I take that hate
and I wear is as a cape,
a cape of
blue
pink
white
pink
blue.