Fluorescent shades

of pale pink,

wash over 

my mind.

A rough,

slowly tearing texture

makes its way onto my skin.

I pick off the wrapper 

of yet another crayon.

It’s pretty

It looks like the blossoms I find off the ground,

it reminds me of my stained lips

whenever I take a cherry

out of the dripping bowl on our counter. 

I wish I could be beautiful

like the crayon.

The crayon I could never pick,

like the shirt that was

just 

too 

much.

Too pink.

Too pretty.

Too much like the blossoms.

Too much like the cherries.

Too feminine.

A term I seem

to swerve at every corner.

I would avoid it like a disease,

why would I want such a phrase

to be pinned onto me

more than it already was?

It’s alright,

I'll stick with 

the pale

earthy tones,

the midnight skies,

the amethyst stones,

the sun-soaked eyes.

Anything

would be better

than pink.