the deep purple curtains of my aunt's house
i hid behind them often,
as my mother ran about,
with a glass of milk.
my feet showing, my body wrapped in purple,
a remorsefully sad attempt to hide,
but i was convinced,
that no one would find me,
in this purple world of protection, the secrets of a ten year old would be safe.
so i stood there, behind those curtains, looking at the velvet sky,
through the grilled window,
and dreamt dreams not allowed beyond the purple.
came to me in drops of freedom, dripping unnoticed from my mother's palm,
an addictive taste on a child's tongue.
it changed into promises of hopes and ambitions and magic,
the wardrobe that led to Narnia,
the letter to Hogwarts, the song of the sirens the sailor heard,
the untainted world of purple skies and purple tipped mountains,
that smelled of flowers and chocolates.
until one day,
i ran in,
to find the window stripped off the purple,
bare and real,
a wooden frame of grills with no magic.
no letters and no wardrobes,
just a window that looked onto the street that smelled of unkept adult promises,
while the air tasted bitter,
with sickly sweet lies.
i saw then the grime and dust,
for the first time on,
the purple curtain i so loved,
shoved among with the rest of the clothes,
getting ready for the brutal wash.