I don’t remember if the couch was an emerald fabric
chafﬁng my arms raw or blue-white patchwork like a picnic quilt.
I don’t remember if the curtains were soft see-through
beige or heavy cotton closed off to passers-by.
All I remember were your hands like snakes working
under my clothing, ignoring my pleas growing softer then quieting.
The background noise of an unknown movie pushing
myself deeper into the pit of me where I would stay for the next 10 years.
By Leila Farjami