“He Didn’t Want to Know Me”
He is from Kurdistan.
And I thought maybe —
maybe that meant
he would understand
the heaviness I carry.
The silence.
The fracture.
The way I speak
half in mourning,
half in hope.
But he turned away
before I could finish
my sentence.
He didn’t want to know me.
Not the one
with the old mountain blood,
with U4c1 coiled in her chest,
with more truth than comfort
in her voice.
I thought he might see me.
Not as foreign,
not as broken —
but as someone who never left,
even if the world moved on.
But he turned cold,
like I was a stranger
from a land he forgot.
And maybe I am.
Maybe I’m too much memory.
Maybe I make it harder
to pretend things are fine.
Still —
I would’ve known him.
Every silence.
Every scar.
I would’ve known.
But he didn’t want to know me.