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
But I could see what was happening to
Now I have no dresses and short hair,
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.