My Red Dress

I asked her if it would be okay

to stay and sleep in her bed.

My palms bled from the pomegranates,

some of the teeth cracked,

some burst into blood petals.

I walked on the pins of fruit—

the ones we forgot to peel

but my feet skinned from being idle.

Where did I go, except the hair

of other women I wore and felt it fall

from my shoulders, tickling my back

turning around to find a line of ants

showing me my spine is upside down.

I can’t stand but I can tell you the story,

even the parts that made me lose the knot.

I knew I died when you pulled the nails

and my dress was a pleated pull of a body.

Let me finish my glass of milk,

I can feel the last round of love in this tear gas.

Rahil Najafabadi is an Iranian American writer and editor based in New York City. Her work involves elements of time, nature, and the human condition. She also writes about the multicultural challenges that the Iranian diaspora face everyday. When Rahil isn’t working, she is learning and practicing Taekwondo.