This is not a balm-your-sores-poem

This is not a balm-your-sores-poem
when you step to dance, freely with a man hugging your shoulder
that very night, a blast blows another city,
one you had walked a few days ago with your soles, empty of slippers

the very next morning, you are asleep
shifting between a dream and a pillow,
your cover pulls down slowly, in a flash
you fail to see it in the name of pleasure, faithfulness

you dislike your features,
the nose that's too big, revealing an ancestry
that's eastern, but never specified
an hour later you will hear of failed nose-jobs and think twice

at lunch, pepper is served
on the plates enough to make you cough
to make the woman scream in pain
the one whose husband poured the spray onto her eyes, her face, her soul

how, you will question
do the days end, but with another sunset,
another murder, a rape, a deflation of the will
to wake up next day?

I will answer you, I do not know
this is not a balm-your-sores-poem
this time I do not know if the words can stay
or if they have the same effect on my bleached skin
now that my heart is sore with the chemicals
when all that surrounds me has gone into smoke.