It’s a miracle that I’m still around
After I lost my skin
And walked all over Tehran’s streets,
Absorbing all the noise and pollution
Directly into every little muscle and bone.

It’s a miracle that I still love—
Even if very selectively,
And surgically cautious.
Even if from a distance,
From my carefully curated living space
Where only music, art, and fashion are allowed,
With no pre-screening and constant monitoring for letdown and betrayal.

It’s a miracle that I still smile—
Even though, if you look closely
At the corner of my mouth,
You would notice a trace of unbreakable sadness.
That’s why, when I feel too deep,
I look away.

There was a time, when I was younger,
When I loved so freely,
So carelessly,
So curiously—
But I got pushed and pulled,
Hurt and burnt
Beyond the point of my breaking.

You cannot see it,
But my soul carries all those wounds
And burn marks on her skin.
And she carries them
Like a badge of honor.

Because it’s a miracle that I still breathe.
And it’s a miracle
That I kept my dreams.