I apply face cream
as the world splits open.
Soft circles under my eyes,
while a siren slices through a continent.
The jar clicks shut
as a mother searches for her son
beneath rubble and skyfall.
I whisper goodnight
while a child is lifted into a headline.
In my kitchen, the kettle clicks off.
Somewhere else,
a breath gives up mid-prayer.
A city I have never walked
appears between headlines.
Two lives reduced
to a sentence
I will carry longer
than the news does.
What do we do
with all this ordinary?
The cat still needs feeding,
the bins still go out on Fridays,
and beauty still climbs the trellis,
even as someone curls around their own body,
trying not to scream.
The duality is unbearable.
Wedding rings and body bags.
Lullabies and airstrikes.
Newborn cries echo
through maternity wards
and refugee camps alike.
And still,
someone paints their nails.
Someone washes blood off the walls.
Someone laughs at a meme,
while another stands barefoot in ash.
Some days, I can’t hold it all.
The guilt of being safe.
The grief of being human.
The miracle of not being gone.
But I smooth the cream in,
not because it makes sense,
but because it doesn’t.
Because my heart
learns to beat
through contradiction.
Because someone has to
notice the petals,
even as they fall,
even as the smoke rolls in.
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