pink. sonnet. man.

So, I have been obsessed with finding the perfect pink dress. You know one that transforms from day to evening, without being too tight, and isn’t bubble gum. All of a sudden the idea of this pink dress is the thing. I had a dream about it and I’ve written it into a poem: dirty pink dress / . And I’ve been thinking a lot about my color choices. I’ve stayed away from color, unless it’s a special occasion, since moving to Chicago. It’s like naturals, blacks, and grays have been my armor. Because flashy colors seem to draw attention. And the last thing I want on the train or walking these urban streets is attention. Think: stranger danger.

Maybe I should start working on a collection of sonnets about women of note. I started a version of this in my thesis, but am now thinking I should revisit this idea with a bit more focus on structure and purpose. I know this type of collection has been done before. So what  would make my approach important is the inclusion of color. I think the color pink. Totally not too sure about that though because in this instance it kinda makes me feel bubble gum...the whole girls and pink and boys and blue thing.

Late nights I’ve been watching documentaries on all things serial killer. The myth around the type of man that could do this has always terrified me. When I was younger I was so afraid to walk alone to the mall. It was all about the buddy system. And now I don’t take the train at night or call my sister on the 5-min walk from train to apartment, swear by the closing click of the perimeter door, lock and recheck the locks, and it goes on. So, watching these documentaries is one small step to reclaiming years of fearful living.