May My Kurdish Fist Kiss You
(for the ones who build darkness in polished suits)
May my Kurdish fist
kiss you—
not with lips,
but with rage,
with fire,
with generations of silence
coiling behind my bones.
May it strike not your body,
but your illusions.
May it break the glass walls
you call peace,
and shatter the smiles
you wear as weapons.
You built your empire
on our graves,
your comfort
on our chaos,
your flags
on our ashes.
And still—
you dare call me angry
when I raise a fist
painted in the soil
of forgotten mountains?
May my Kurdish fist kiss you
with an anger
that remembers every betrayal,
that names every lie
you called help,
every chain
you wrapped in policy.
This fist is not random.
It’s ancestral.
It carries
the cracked feet of villages burned,
the prayers whispered in forbidden tongues,
the mothers who buried children
with no name left to speak.
You can’t decode this rage.
It is not yours to define.
It’s not political—
it’s blood.
So may my Kurdish fist kiss you
once—
and leave
a mark
you can never wash away.
And may I wake up tomorrow—
and may it all be over.