Just because I say I am Kurdish,
the world does not soften its hands,
nor carve me a space at its table.
No stranger wraps me in kindness,
no gift arrives dressed as a Kurdish man
to build a future in my name.
Life does not bend to identity—
it stares with blank eyes,
a mirror of indifference.
And still,
I walk carrying my name,
as if the weight itself
is proof I exist.