She cries out in anger

after years of pink repression,

softening her tongue

to coddle the precious ears

of those who called her shrill.

Muting herself with a silk scarf,

loosely disguised as an accessory

to her demure demeanour,

instead of a noose around her neck.

Her hot parched lungs are red

like her cheeks

after years

of running from him,

whom was promised to be

her saviour.

Pink bleeds red

staining the white cotton sheets

which swaddled her as a child.

She is a mess

but she is okay now.

There is no soap

for the sins he committed.

Pink bleeds red,

and that is her favourite colour.