I should be the only one
allowed to be confused,
to wander in the fog of questions
that never find an answer.
No non-Kurd,
no non-Iranian,
has the right to claim this maze,
this vertigo of belonging.
They stand on steady ground,
names and borders etched deep
into their skin.
I walk the fault line,
where maps tear and histories
speak in broken tongues.
My confusion is my inheritance,
my private storm—
and no one else
may sail it.