Hopes and Dreams

These are droplets of love. These are taking furniture from one room to another. These are walking in a parade and hoping to see you fully dressed in me. These are constant dreams and hope to open the rope to a peaceful future when infidelities are not reasons to kill and lovers do not grow apart in anger. All I want to do is to say I am a woman whose accidental birth secured her a public rape and public hanging, a woman who could fall because of an accidental birth in class.

How would she move, turn over to him, when they were in love? How would she glide him inside her to construct love and lust? I think about her. I thought about her all day. I think about how passion was fabricated into hate or hate into a crime. Who was the criminal? Who can cast love and cast hate and pour the cognac into an invisible glass. Don’t ask me whom I am writing about or what does love mean after all?

What are you meant to me? What was he meant to her? What do words have to do anything with the amount of my dedication in these writings? Why should it matter if a woman’s name is Shahla Jahed or Sakineh Ashtiani? They loved men. They loved because they could, and fell almost daily in love with the same man. Women who love, women who may or may not have had killed for love. But what I write is not their story. It is the story of other women, who love but love in short and long writings.