“I Am Just Ugly, Not Kurdish”
They called me names I couldn't wear.
“Kurdish” was too big.
“Turkish” was too fake.
But in the end, no one asked me —
they just looked
and looked away.
I was never the daughter of a people.
Only the shadow of a question
no one wanted to answer.
They said I had the eyes of mountains.
But all I saw was swollen skin
and the curve of shame on my face.
The mirror was always honest.
More honest than kin,
more honest than nation,
more honest than the lies in family mouths
that said:
“You're just different.”
No.
I am just ugly.
Not chosen.
Not remembered.
Not Kurdish.
Not beautiful.
Let them keep their ancestry,
their flags, their grief songs.
Let them keep their cheekbones
and their stories of resistance.
I was never part of it.
Just a girl
no one would claim.
So let me rot in the corner
between borders,
between names,
between mirrors.
I am not Kurdish.
I am just
ugly.