I don’t know why
the ones who desperately need
aggression therapy
and nicotine addiction therapy
choose to speak to me.
But I hope one day
their smoke-filled throats collapse
under the weight of their own poisons,
and their fists grow tired
of fighting shadows.
And when silence finally comes,
I will not miss their voices.
Take your Atatürk,
your stone-faced idol,
your cigarette smoke and empty bottles —
carry them all to the grave.
You built him into a god,
but even gods can reek of poison,
even myths can rot from within.
When the statue crumbles,
when the smoke clears,
nothing remains but silence —
and the people who no longer bow.