To The Colour Pink
- Mikayla Leskey
- Nov 14
- 3 min read
Mikayla Leskey | Arts and Entertainment Editor
I’m sorry for ever hating you.
that I let other people's opinions warp my mind
to the point where I couldn’t even speak of you
without fear of being called a girly-girl.
I didn’t want to be like other girls
such a pre-teen fear wrought from
misogynistic opinions—that I had
to be different or else I’d be caught
in the stereotypes of being weak
and afraid of bugs or getting dirty.
That I would be dumb because
I couldn’t understand math all that well
yet I hate cleaning even more
and I’m banned from the kitchen
so what kind of girl did that leave me to be?
When I was a kid, my crayons were my “best friends”
as my parents would say. I would use them like barbies,
even though I had full sets of them sitting in crates in the
corner of my room, nothing could beat the wax smell of
crayons. Pink and blue were always together, always
the pair kid me married off, or made one do some heroic sacrifice
for the other. From ages zero to fourteen, my bedroom walls
were always pink. Even when I grew out of the colour
when I was eight years old it still took another
six years to convince my parents to paint the walls.
They were afraid of losing their “sweet little girl”
the one who cherished princesses and butterflies
and faeries over rock bands and horror movies
and werewolves. Some part of me wonders
where that little girl went.
To the colour pink, the colour that
will always belong to younger me,
before she had any reason to hate
the colour. Who wouldn’t believe that
I no longer wear pink every single day
that it’s not even in my wardrobe anymore.
I exchanged fluffy pink coats to cold black
leather jackets, my crayons have been donated,
and walls painted dark blue. I thought it would stay
that way forever, that pink would fall by the wayside
as I grew older, soon to be forgotten that it was
ever a part of me until I met her.
She was the poem I always wanted to
write but never knew how to start. Her hair
might’ve been faded purple and blue but
she dressed as if pink threw up on her. Flowery
pink dresses with matching pink platform boots,
red lipstick and bright pink eyeshadow. Yet
her favourite thing to watch was true crime. Pins
from horror movies and games lined her pastel pink
bag. She hates math just as much as I, but she lives
and breathes science like it’s her soul. She was everything
little me wished she could’ve been. I don’t regret how I
turned out, but I wonder how different I would’ve been
if I didn’t change myself to fit others ideals. If I would’ve
been just like her, with pink lining my wardrobe and my crayons
sitting at my desk.
To that little girl, who was obsessed with the colour pink,
I’m sorry. And to the colour pink, that I hated for the longest time,
I’m sorry too. You will always belong to younger me, but now,
you will also belong to my best friend. For she will always
treat you better than I ever could. Thank you for being there for
us. For watching me grow up and change into someone
unrecognizable. For sending me my pink and reminding me
it’s okay to hold my childlike loves and ideals. And if I can be
allowed to hope and dream one more time, then I hope
for you to stay with me forever. To not let me forget
about you or hate you ever again. Please hold us in
your sweet embrace, let opinions be ignored and
naiveness to settle in. I miss being able to love
you without fear.
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