poem: naomi head

Walls

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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about the writer: naomi head

Naomi Head is a writer based in Edinburgh, Scotland. She has written for Time Out Beijing, Refresh Magazine and more. Find her work at naomihead.com