She calls me a martyr br of my own ideas. br She says the world br has never been kinder, br and I should stop br living in the fantasies br of my pen. br But she's not fair. br She forgets I made her the world br she used to hide in br long ago br when the war got closer to our house br and could no longer keep br the flowers and the vases br on the table, br when the bombs ruined the grass, br and the sky, and the sun, br and people got angrier than usual br and hungrier, br and our dog died br hit in the head by a strayed bullet br the day after br we burned our children br in the garden br near the house, br because there was no where br place to bury anything else, br and after that br I made her new children br from yellow paper, br and she gave them names br and put them in bottles br that replaced the vases and the flowers br on the table br and we kept them there br even after the war ended br and people started br being buried again.