Pretty in Pink

“Such a pretty little girl. So kind and caring,” as I listen it is swallowed whole,

I look down to see a pretty pink tag and wonder what is your purpose?

“Be careful now,” “That’s dangerous,” “That’s too heavy for you.”

But I’m fine. I can do it. Damn this pink tag.

The ties of a ballerina skirt, suddenly feel so restrictive,

Until Monday night becomes football club and then all change,

“You’re alright, you’re not like other girls,” and I hear acceptance.

Success.

But how strange when discovering yourself to find a key part so disliked,

“Don’t be such a girl” drives a determination to re-colour myself.

Suddenly, life becomes like a fishbowl.

“It’s not very feminine for women to have muscles.”

How bizarre that my shade of pink seems to challenge your tag,

But I must be kind and caring, so I’m sorry. I’ll internalise the heat,

Ignoring the simmering and boiling in me, to pleases you,

I turn a blind eye to the overspill of angry pink froth.

However, my late twenties brings awareness to the depleting levels,

So, a career change, crossing a chasm from media to medicine and the mind

"What on earth are you doing now?"

But it's okay, I now know you're just protecting your tag,

Me and mine are happy to fall into this unknown,

New discoveries will catch me.

But. An unexpected bump.

"No. Actually, I like it when girls …"

As though a lens has been removed, a bright light shines on the destruction

of my deluded, determination to differentiate from the “other girls”,

Revealing the cost of splitting the self, myself, and vilifying a version of me.

Now I look at my tag like it has been introduced to me for the very first time.

Pink was never a prediction, it was a permission, to be used how I wanted.

We have polluted Pink with preconceptions, impersonating social acceptance.

So here is my messy, pretty pink tag. Depicting the complex picture of me.

An emergent domain of self that I wear with pride.