To You, my Fascist.

I keep seeing the trains. It's Auschwitz. I doubt that old guy I met could've done any of such things. But I've seen it all. There are no arguments against facts.

This week I heard I was one of them. And tonight I admit I am still one of them. Taken by you, hurt, mistreated. And it was all for History's sake, so people would get stuff to study about. Ridiculous!

I'm shivering. It's so freaking cold. You're so freaking cold. And I'm so hot. Ready to burn into tears.

As I dream at night, back to the ghost town, I see the Jews walking by me. I didn't do anything, so now I guess it's my turn to feel it on my own skin - why would you do this to me? I think I may well be a Jew.

And the dreams, they keep coming back. I can still hear the typer machine. I don't forget the view from that window. I listen to your friend's voice. I wonder what one does with a master's degree, I think it turns you into a General.

The East, oh the east. Too much land you've conquered, but you didn't dare go east. Not again. Only for fun. My turn.

I wish I was actualy entering the train that would take me to Auschwitz. Instead, I am actually leaving it, with empty hands and a heavy heart. It's so heavy it hurts to carry it along with me. 

In the end, I'm left with my inspiration, the one who always says it all for me: "Every women adores a Fascist" (Sylvia Plath) 

Yes, it must be.