Little girls wear pink,
Florals, ribbons, and roses.
Teenagers turn to edgy thorns and purpose.
.
I often wore black,
Because of how I viewed the world
Through the cracked window
Of a beautiful pink home.
.
Mother was rarely there,
I see it was a blessing
that she ran off and stayed unaware.
.
Now that I am an adult,
My perspective has changed.
I no longer feed the trauma
That mother refuses to face.
.
I don't need her love or validation,
the yellow flowers and cadavers are her sentiment
to continue her venomous vengeance.
.
Not every fruit can be picked and chosen.
Some are rotten.
Some are rude.
And others believe that children must swoon
their delusions and mockery of their food.
.
I stepped outside.
With my sharp pink axe,
I walked toward the enchanted tree
that ruined our childhood pact.
.
The faces started screaming
As I raised the axe.
In my black dress,
I made a bloody mess.
.
The faces hit the ground.
The tree began to fold.
Its leaves withered.
Its branches cracked.
These demons held no power
compared to my pink axe.
.
I looked down.
My black dress was gone.
.
Now I wore
A denim shirt,
A floral blouse,
And soft colors
That reminded me of spring.
Not black that reminded me of death and stings.
.
There is so much color.
So much love.
At last,
I have found myself,
and my home:
mother couldn't be alone,
but everyone else can hold their own.