• Naomi Head


Originally published on March 16, 2021 by Write, Bitch, Write!

My childhood bedroom was purple,

not deep and royal, but lilac,

so light the walls struggled to absorb the sun.

I stopped loving the colour purple,

but my mother still hangs on to my painting

of two balloon people holding hands

smiling on a bright, round planet

admiring a blood red heart

hanging in a dark purple sky.

I look at them and remember

lazy, sunny days on my purple carpet

staring up at the sky, wondering

where the clouds would go,

if they could take me with them.

The carpet was stained

with bright pink nail polish

and a large faded orange patch

where some Irn Bru went rogue.

Later, I left that room behind

purple walls covered in blu tack

filled with the sun-bleached faces

of bands I’ve long since forgotten.

I’ve never had a purple room again.

The colours of my life come from clothes,

found treasures or little moments, captured

and pinned to temporary walls.

It is too much to be surrounded

by one colour all the time

white doesn’t count,

neither does beige,

magnolia or eggshell.

Each is a blank canvas making it easier

to assemble a personality.

Bit by bit, I’ve curated and crafted my self

until the walls read like stories,

whispering tales of where I’ve been,

the things I want and where I’m going.

I see answers sitting

in the spaces between

painted all the colours I’ve ever seen

waiting patiently

for me to take the lead.

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