You, Me, & All The In-Betweens: This is who we are

By Shaikha Humaid Al Bakhit

I believe that the simplest string of words can dismantle the earth as well as the pain itched between porcelain bones, and that the world is made up of fire, water, and dirt and we are just a mere combination of it all.

YOU, ME, AND ALL THE IN-BETWEENS is there for YOU and only YOU.
If you need a sign, then this is it.
Keep going, keep going.
You're almost there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sail Publishing
• Release date: Jul 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781912317233

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Shaikha Humaid Al Bakhit

Published by Sail Publishing L.L.C.

First published in 2017

Copyright © 2017 by Sail Publishing L.L.C.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Dear Dad,

You were here, and I had the world.

But not much belongs to me anymore.

Love always,

Your daughter

For my home, My dad

This is a tragic tightrope walk after a 1095-day fight.

I heard so many stories about the fall,

about the collision when you lose your footing.

It didn't make the ground any softer.

There's a whole lot of empty and my feet aren't steady.

The ache is overrun, and my hands can't carry it anymore.

But I'm trying to forgive the pain,

and the restless quiet everyone has left me with.

I'm still figuring out how to silence it without making it any louder.

I'm not getting far.

I forgive that too.

I look at your old photographs and I am reminded that

your face,

your smile,

will start to fade in the new ones.

I thought there'd be more time to tell you all the things you already know.

I can't imagine what comes after

this mourning,

this kamikaze.

But what I do know is that:

You are my country,

and the streets are still beautiful.

(even in your absence)

You are my country,

and I still speak your language.

You are beyond what the world has ever made you.

The human anatomy is simply skin enveloped around bone, with a few glitches here and there. If skin could peel itself away, you’d see proof of how many people touched and stained your soul. May it be white or red, it’ll endlessly be marked with a familiar yet foreign fingerprint.

When our bodies shift like tectonic plates underneath floorboards, we’ll discover whose heart will stop beating first; and if oceans will fill up our lungs to the point of purple lips. What if our hands feel foreign when they touch again? What if skin on skin is not enough to thaw the winter storm between us? I know it gets tiring reaching for something when it isn’t