it’s only in the dark that the words come, in the lonely space next to my sleeping lover. I read that bukowski had a sweet little bird inside him, begging to get out, and I heard that boys all over the world read his poem and wept. I do not have a bird. I have a nuclear war. it is four in the morning, and the rain has been hammering us all. I am the unreliable narrator. queen of the ashes, of burning paper covered with years and years of indelible ink. I gear up to get sick, and wonder how long the fire will burn for. the birds are stupid creatures. they sing even as it rains. nuclear wars are precious, tenacious, unpredictable, full of warnings and suggestions and promises of destruction. but they only exist in the heads of powerful men, so far. if the atom splits, and the rain drops, then we all die. or perhaps only inside the heads of powerful men. 

I would like the past to stay gift-wrapped. if I breathe hard enough, perhaps it will. I have a guilty curse. I wonder if I should apologise to all those men I burned. I wonder if I will burn any more. I don’t want to. I think my grief has gotten mixed up with the nuclear war. I want that girl to stay gift-wrapped, but I realise she is a part of me now. he stirs upstairs. I hope not with upset. I realise I do have a bird in my heart after all. it lives outside the body, delicate, with precious little wings ripe for the breaking. I sit inside my domestic womb, covered in blankets and cinnamon sugar, and hope that none of this will touch me in the morning. I must remember I am not a film. I must remember I am not a poem. I must remember that I am a human. I drink more water. I can look nuclear war right in the eye. this war belongs only to me. I must remember that I am Hecate. life is not a mythology.