By Lindsay Kesler


You raised me to be pink and do things

that pinks do.

I wore dresses and heels and put ribbons

in my hair.

I did all you taught me because you said

that was how a pink acted.

When you sent me to school I saw something

new, a blue.

I knew that dad was a blue, but I didn’t

know there were others too.

As I got older, I began to change, both

mind and body.

While I began to look more like a pink,

inside I was becoming blue

I no longer saw the use for skirts and

refused to put on makeup for any given occasion

You asked me what was wrong and I told

you nothing

But I could see what was happening to


Now I have no dresses and short hair,

not long

What I feel inside is slowly coming out

I am not pink

I am not blue

I am purple

But I am so afraid to tell you.