Please don’t ask me

what my favorite color is

ever again.

It’s a mean game.

If I say blue

to pacify you,

it reaffirms your vision of me

as male.

If I tell the truth

and say pink,

you get to act shocked

and probably even poke fun.

To shut you up,

I say, “I don’t know,”

as if I’m the only fool on earth

without a favorite color.

It’s cruel,

the way you gaslight me,

the way you taunt.

As if you didn’t force me

to come out to you as trans

years ago.

But now you pretend

it never happened.

You love to jab at me

and twist the knife in.

Asking me the question in front of others,

purposefully trying to embarass me.

Buying me cards and books and

underlining the male pronouns

and the word “son.”

I’m tired of avoiding your wrath

and punishment.

It’s exhausting

pretending to be someone

you find acceptable.

Keep pushing.

I may eventually reach my breaking point

and tell you,

My favorite color is

the shade of pink

on the dress

I will wear

to your funeral.