The color of the room is Pink.
Pink, more solid than concrete.
In our soft little stocking feet
We tip-toe tissue flesh within the ribbing.
A pale squeak, just fibbing
Depth from shallow capillaries.
A wash of mellow tone that buries
The shades below the flow,
From ruffled lace crib to crimson satin pillow.
A fruit punch popsicle mouth pucker
Evolving to scarlet tongued fucker
So subtly and unlike the red forked jolt
We expect. And yet, I feel a revolt
Of magenta spotting my complexion,
In moments of pitiful reflection,
I play hopscotch blame for personal rejection.
Once that’s done, I’ll move past it
To a game that’s more fantastic.
A ham-fisted what if history had been more kind
To ladies with a mind? If, then, now not just rewind
To feministic morality play tropes to lend a hand
Against anticipated chauvinistic underhand.
If instead we could just be
Beyond the pale Pink periphery;
The door wide open to admit
Daughter, Mother, Sister, all allowed to fit
Both in, and out, without a schism
Instead of suffering all these woes.
Because despite problematic symbolism
I still like pink on the nails of my toes.