all the same in pink

I went to a rave in Belfast, and it was barbie-themed. The girls dressed in all pink and the boys pretended to be feminists (in that typical Ken fashion). It was a whole thing, you know. I went with a German girl who I didn’t quite know, but she invited me because my hair was pink and hers was pink and we figured that made us kin. I painted my face in glitter and put on the only nice perfume I owned. I wore shoes that protected my toes. The DJ played 2012 pop music—Taylor, Miley, Demi—you know, the kind that reminds you of your parent’s divorce but in a way that doesn’t hurt too much. I bought a beer because I was homesick. I danced because I never wanted to go home again. I went to the bathroom, not because I needed to, but because that’s where drunk girls go. (I love your dress, your shirt, your hair, do you have a vape?) I danced the whole time, and they danced too. The whole room danced and I could not see my feet. There was so much pink and it really is my favorite color. My mouth never closed, my head never fell, and the lights flashed pink. Every girl in that room was my best friend: “I love you” “I love you” “I love you” “I love you.”