I have a problem

With the Pink Posse.

It’s not that I’m ungrateful

Or unfaithful

To my supporters

And cheerleaders.

But some of us, affected,

Don’t wish to be subjected

To this trauma,

This public drama.

It isn’t that we don’t love support and elevation.

It just feels too much like a celebration

When there is pain and suffering,

When dragged kicking and screaming

Into this pink crowd, parading.

In time, I’ve grown

To own it, to link

My issue with pink

To my own ego.

I’ll wear pink if you ask

On special days when groups take it to task,

Because I see now the crowd

Has a need to feel helpful,

Proud,

Despite being at a loss for what to say

Or do, to allay

Our fears and tears.

So people pay

At these events

To dine, donate, run,

To encourage us, to have fun.

I’ve matured beyond aversion.

I understand pink’s power and mission,

But to be honest, I prefer orange.

It’s difficult to extinguish,

And it’s uniqueness,

It’s vibrant anti-pinkness

Glows like a flame, a torch.

And See?

Distinctively…

Nothing rhymes with orange.