[Certain]

I remember my first rape. She was 14.
Doused her with chlorine. Chemically burned face.
Pinned her shoulders, then entered and tore space;
I dismembered a poor, chaste girl,
rendered her whore's bait.
Her eyes, unblinking. Her thighs, unflinching.
She stared into the devil's heart. No hiding, shrinking.
And for a moment, as I came inside this victim,
I, too, saw Lucifer's silent grimace.

I remember my first kill, the following month.
We were just locking them up.
They'd throw their bottles and run.
Darkness. Street lights out. I throttled my gun.
One blast. Here was a father or son, shot in the gut.
My hands trembled as I swallowed the sight.
On his jacket was soldered a sign that meant I had collared a kike.
For a second, gave into an ominous pride,
but as the blood poured, I was the one feeling hollow inside.

I remember my first execution, firing squad.
Bind and cuff then line them up and consign 'em to God.
With any rise from the mob, we'd remind them to stop
by holding a gun to a child's head. Their silence was prompt.
As we expired the lot and shoveled their bodies to piles,
the others were sobbing and wild.
Mother despondent for child.
We covered the obvious, vile odor with cigarette drags,
but every exhale left every soldier to pick at his scabs.

I remember the aftermath, the broken illusion
of a man soaked and confused and moping reclusive.
I still think about it, after all the hopeless excuses.
I still think about it, about all the token abuses.
We were totally fused into a system of hate,
emprisoned by our own minds' impotent state.
But I can't gain forgiveness this late.
In all the mass killings and rapes, I wasn't the victim or prey.
I'm not a innocent scapegoat. There's blood on these hands,
death in these eyes in the disguise of a company man.
I'll carry my own cross. Let the wood splinter through.
My sins are truth. This is the price for a Hitler Youth.