Yours was maroon, mine wasn’t

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,

stringing,

twining, and

looping endless

rivers beneath

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

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5 thoughts on “Yours was maroon, mine wasn’t

  1. I am mesmerised by the use of words, mashallah. It creates an evocative image and it drips with emotion. Keep up the amazing work!

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