Pink sucks.

​

It makes my blood boil. Pink is the political revolution of the Millennials – boys can wear pink! I don’t want to wear pink, all pale and washed-out.

​

I want excitement, fear and danger, a fresh steak, sizzling as it hits the pan...the girl with bold the lipstick who walked through the door one night…hatred in the eyes of the bull as it fights the mirage of the cloak.

​

A colour growing ever more vivid when it first touches the air. The anticipation of the first bite that comes with the smell of melting fat. Every step along the way a different shade; struggling with the impatience as it rests under the light, colour seeping out onto the tray and glistening as it flows.

​

She terrified me, lips a deeper shade than the wine she sipped. I gave her shit about the cranberry-grossness in her hand and she laughed at the scrape on my temple, a consequence of another drunken night. I can hardly remember what we said, where we were, when we danced, over the pounding in my chest. Then the sting of the cold as I sat with her by the river, happy to catch frostbite in hope that I might experience the thrill of one more smile.

​

Even that would be better, the swell of hatred and adrenaline; life and death. When that bull dies, it falls before a crowd with its heart pounding, locked in a struggle as it strains with every sinew of its being – it feels. The matador spends years training and now all that remains is a memory, twisting twirling jumping writhing before the crowd. The majesty which makes you feel invincible on the cusp of life and death. The burning sun hung above the Andalusian evening.

​

Pink is comfortable, Pink is safe, Pink is hell.

​

I want Red.