Girly

My joy when I get a guitar after years of asking for one. Pink. 
The bear I slept with every day for years when I was moving between homes in my childhood. Pink.
The slipper I used to throw with precision towards the light switch when I was too lazy to close the light before going to bed. Pink.
My first play phone. Pink
“Mommy, mommy! I want a cute notebook!” I say looking at the one in the form of a car.
“That’s for boys, don’t you want one with dresses? Don’t you like drawing? You could try designing clothes!” 
Pink.

 
My hands are trembling.
This happens every time I open the bags filled with unused, old, random objects.
Rejection. 
I hate pink. But why? And why is it so sad? 
Why am I sad when I think a simple color is made to define my gender? Why am I so sad that this beautiful color is rejected by most who were forced to define themselves through it? Why are pink bears worse than green giraffes? Why does my mother still buy me red, pink, and purple clothes? Why do they sit in a corner, dust covering their meaning, but not destroying it?
Why is girly a color? And why is girly wrong?
Why can’t I be “mature” and be taken seriously?
Why can’t I be a young girl without having my whole room painted in the color?
Colors are forms of expression, not of suppression.