We are delighted to have Shaikha Al Bakhit back with us with a new poem for our February theme Red! We hope you enjoy it
We have red,
our insipid skin. On
a cold February morning, you
outlined my face with warmth
that would have dismayed a
blizzard. And told me
my bones are made of
wrecked porcelain and
I have a bleeding cascade for
irises. I’ve consumed
enough of your smoke
to murder my defamed
lungs. But I can never stop
counting how many times
I tried to catch my breath
every time you smiled at
me. You made me believe we had
the same pigment of streams;
yours was maroon, mine wasn’t.
I always knew there was something
about how lips quivered as if an
earthquake just fractured
their heart. And I think that’s
why they name every abysmal disaster.
Its June now, and the broken memory
of you leaving is still prisoned between
the cages of my cavity. But I will resuscitate,
and self-defibrillate my being. I am
more than your whispered words that
turned my eyes into a raging storm.
Yet you’re as beautiful as they come and
I fell in love with every pigment of you. But
I wasn’t maroon. You didn’t love that, or
anything at all.
Author: Shaikha Al Bakhit
5 thoughts on “Yours was maroon, mine wasn’t”
Absolutely Brilliant and enchanting till the very end. Keep it up, dear!
I love it!!!!!
I am mesmerised by the use of words, mashallah. It creates an evocative image and it drips with emotion. Keep up the amazing work!
I always spent my half an hour to read this blog’s articles all
the time along with a mug of coffee.