Our Little Secret

You started collecting secrets when you were just six years old.  They piled up by the time you turned seventeen.  Then on they went.  

Drunk with plans to destroy the world.  Destroying what needs to be destroyed.  First, the politics, then the philosophies, theologies, and all the rest.  
In a dim motel room, with the written word before you.  Typing keys that produce a new world.  

In your stupor, you cross the gateway.  Wanting to go further than the fire can lift. Erasing the rules.  The blank page sprouts.

The secret to killing a man is making him the enemy.  The enemy must die.  You are simply the mechanism.  The soldier doing his duty.  Once you’ve killed him you will hate him.  The Arab in that Cure song.
The secret to prayer is disbelief.  Reach for the infinite.  The infinite is that girl in high school, with ocean blue eyes, sparkling as she played that Standing On A Beach album. How is it that you knew you’d never forget the feeling of sitting next to her?
 
It all came together when you took Samarra.  Hell is real.  It shakes the ground in the explosions of conquest.  The Arab will always remain your enemy.

We are not angels.  We are human beings.  Truth is what we must live with.  Whether we are aware of it or not.  The shadows of skeletons.

If you put your mind to it, you can do most anything.  That same mind that once dreamt of a kiss from beauty, can fall in love with hate.  Can burn it all down.  

Squeeze the trigger.