Pink

When I was young,

I didn’t like pink.

It felt too “girly”,

Too light,

Too much.

I thought hating pink would make me more mature,

More different,

More strong.

So I pushed it away

Chose other colors that made me feel more seen,

More heard.

Growing up,

Pink slowly started to return.

It was waiting for me to stop hiding behind masks that weren’t mine.

It showed up in the small things,

A cute dress in a store,

A soft sunset,

A flower blushing with the color.

I found comfort in it.

I realized I never hated pink,

I only refused to see its beauty,

Refused to see my beauty.

Then came her.

Pink was her favorite.

We shared our love for it.

It was our color.

The way her eyes lit up talking about it— 

It always made me smile.

She looked so pretty in pink.

But now she is gone,

Not in the way people leave.

She left by breaking something

That can’t be fixed.

Now every time I see pink,

I see her too.

I see our memories.

I see myself growing up.

Pink never changed,

But I did.

I still love it, just the way it is.

Soft,

Light,

Beautiful.

Even if it stings a little,

Even if it holds memories,

It’s my color.