“They Dim My Shine (Because of My Face)”
They dim my shine
to reflect the Balkans —
as if my face
casts too much truth
for their cameras to hold.
They talk about my face
like it’s a problem.
Too strong,
too serious,
too Kurdish
to be convenient.
They never say it outright.
Just enough silence
to make me question
what I should never doubt.
They don’t want flame —
they want fog.
They don’t want history —
they want filters.
They quiet my voice
to amplify theirs —
voices trained
to charm, not challenge.
They light their stage
by shadowing me.
They talk
because my face
tells a story
their mirrors cannot bear.
But I —
I am not glitter.
I am heat.
I am inheritance.
I am the mountain
that didn’t ask for permission to stand.
You can dim the room
all you want —
but my shine
comes from a sun
you’ll never own.
And this face?
It carries exile,
defiance,
and bloodlines
you tried to forget.
So talk.
Whisper.
Project.
I’m not here to please.
I’m here to remain.