Iran

You were too interesting a person. Without friends, without family—only one being shared your silence. Iran. A man with black wings, living below. You came to him, breathless, and admired him: a beautiful body, long snow-white hair. This time you descended, and the first thing you felt was strong arms grabbing you. You fell to the floor, your eyebrows raised in surprise. Iran leaned over you, his back bandaged, a gentle smile on his lips.

• My love… You looked behind his head, puzzled. Something was missing. And then you understood. His wings were cut off. They hung on nails, like a terrible memory on the wall. “Iran… your wings…” you breathed out. He interrupted, twirling your long dark locks around his finger: — I want to be like you. A human being. I want you to admire me. Not them. Just me. You were silent, looking into his eyes. He continued to smile tenderly, as if he didn't understand the pain he was paying for your attention. And for the first time, you wondered: were you really worth his wings?