when i was six, and an innocent child
we all lived in a small house by the sea
my mother, father and i
my parents painted the walls of my room pink
because i wanted them to.
when i turned nine, and a tad bewildered
we moved house, ’cause “money’s short, my dear”
i wanted my walls to be painted blue
to remind me of the sea i left behind
my parents grumbled, but they agreed.
by the time i was thirteen, and finally enlightened
we had moved again, to hide
just my father and i
i painted my walls a vicious red
like the blood on my sweet mother’s body.
at the age of seventeen, and bitter
while my father was lost in a bottle
i repainted my walls a landscape of bright colors
to hide the fact that my mind
was black upon black.
as soon as i turned eighteen, done with life already
i was out of that hellhole
the walls of my small, new apartment stayed bare
’cause i couldn’t find in myself the energy
to paint, at all.