The color pink is a presupposition
that was forced upon us
from birth.
We were not given a choice.

It was shoved down our throats—
pushed onto us on all sides
            from the aisles in stores full
of girly toys, to the breast cancer pins
that were such a lovely shade
             of pink,
as if girls are forever anchored to the color,
like we can’t even be sick
            and dying
unless it’s pretty and pink.

You don’t see men walking around
with baby blue prostate cancer badges,
            do you?

When I was younger
my parents warned me away from the aisle
full of boy’s toys—interesting colors like black
and blue
            and dark green—and instead made me linger in
the long line that was just pink, everywhere,
            everything pink.

Barbies and fairy tutus and wands and baby dolls
filled my room,
but all I really wanted was a toy
that wasn’t doused in pink for once.

To this day
              I hate the color.