What Does Pink Feel Like?
The beginning of a creative writing piece
As a young child, pink feels like a baby blanket on quilted cotton, and I carry it around everywhere. The bunny face on the blanket smiles up at me and my world is small and safe. Pink is a floppy, long-eared rabbit made of worn terry cloth, a companion that I tell my thoughts to. Pink is fuzzy pom-poms meant for crafts organized on my living room floor by size. This is how I play, and no one minds, because I am happy. Pink is safe and safe. I depend on pink, and it makes up the small world within my child self’s mind.
When my mind grows older and social stability becomes a priority, pink feels like a secret, guilty pleasure. It feels like internalized resentment as my body changes, pink is a restriction that came out of nowhere.
And the pink walls of my bedroom are not soft and aren’t as amazing as they used to be.
This is the beginning/first half of a micro piece I plan on posting in my next newsletter on substack. That newsletter will be free to read to all subscribers!
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