A dove, bent into a weapon.

Its wings no longer carry anything upward.
They fold into the shape of a gun, as if this was always the direction it was meant to take.
Beneath it, a mushroom cloud grows like something inevitable. Not an accident. Not a mistake. Just the next step.

“This is for peace.”
“This is necessary.”
“This is how we keep people safe.”

We call it peace.
We always have.

Every war begins with that word, softened, repeated, polished until it sounds harmless enough to believe.
And somewhere along the way, the dove learns what it is expected to become.

Not a symbol.
Not a hope.
A justification.

There is no outrage left in this piece.
Only the quiet understanding that this has happened before,
and will happen again.

Peace, reshaped until it fits the hand. Whose hand?