In Malta,
the sun wrote my name in gold —
Kurdish on the waves,
saltwater carrying it without shame.
In Germany,
they crush it into a single syllable —
Turkish —
and even that feels borrowed,
misplaced,
a label slapped on skin they never learned to see.
And worse —
here, I dissolve.
A shadow with no outline,
a voice that passes through ears
like wind through glass.
Some places give you a name.
Others take it,
and pretend you were never here.