the irony of pink pills

I've been hating pink most my life.
I really never ever had a 'thing' for pink.. Ok sure. I had the usual pink frilly summer dress as a child, but the moment i had control over my fashion sense, I refused pink. I preferred blues and purples and ultimately, above all, Black.
I've been told black is dismal, dark, gloomy..
i've been called goth.. been mocked for attempting to mantain an all black wardrobe... (lovingly of course)
And i never cared.. I love black.
But it seems my long relationship with black has allowed it to seep into my blood, and has allowed me to be introverted and sedated as black can be sometimes.. Not loud, or alive like a pink...
and so now black is running through my veins, and although it is comfortable.. I'm feeling funny.
I'm feeling the need to breathe. I feel painted into a corner. Painted into a corner with black paint..
And suddenly, I need to take pills.
And the irony?
they're pink.

Pink pills.

I need to take them because the black has consumed me in a way that black would not usually do. But i have become weak and troubled, and those are the best conditions for the good black to change into a black less friendly, less comfortable...

So i'll take thhese pink pills for a while.. Not long enough for it to circle in my veins, and bring a rosy glow to my cheeks..
But long enough to back the black off for a while.. To sooth it.

I hate pink...