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.

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