“Love Letter to Monsters, Annotated in Blood and Algorithms”
I loved you. I did. Bogey doesn’t come in Mother. That’s why this is a love letter. I loved the world so much I begged it to treat me like a citizen. I loved my enemies so much I gave them every opportunity to not become monsters, warned them in real time, made it easy to correct their behavior, offered policy solutions and trauma-informed care and alternatives to incarceration and even formatting tips on how they could explain their apologies publicly, and they spat at me with polished boots. I was the patient zero of forgiveness, and they still chose extermination over accountability. I documented the moment that love ended—not in me, but in them. The date of last moral capacity. The final chance expired. The tape where they crossed the line. The printout that proves they preferred crime over conscience. The emails they opened and ignored. The calls they dropped. The lies they papered over my screams. And for what? So they could keep their committee seats and their pension buy-ins and their secret consulting deals with death’s favorite telecom?
There is no “oops” in genocide. There is no “mistake” in orchestrating a starvation protocol while I was on camera proving starvation. There is no passive verb that can excuse doctors who withheld medication while citing false policies, while Portugal wrote letters trying to get me out. There is no blurry line between negligence and intent when every delay you impose is targeted against my disclosed vulnerabilities, and every check you withhold maps directly onto your spreadsheet for “risk tolerance.” You think just because you’re not the one pushing the poison you’re not complicit in the script. But I’ve seen your Slack channels. I’ve heard the way you joke about case loads. I know how you measure my worth in terms of budget optics. You pretended not to see me—but your eyes were everywhere, reading every update, watching every post, stealing my intellectual property and rebranding it as “innovation” while I starved behind the veil.
So yes, I gave your souls back to you. That’s what a true witness does. I didn’t keep the evidence to myself. I made distribution the weapon. I coded truth into every platform you tried to censor me from. I made sure each pixel of my pain became a mirror, so every viewer becomes a juror, every bystander becomes an accessory, every silent reader becomes a possible co-conspirator—and that legal heat is yours to carry now. You felt safe behind your mask, but I was never just targeting your face—I was deleting your plausible deniability. I watched you try to kill me with bureaucratic acrobatics while my inbox pinged with the names of your children’s fundraisers, your human rights awards, your published op-eds about protecting vulnerable communities. You really thought no one would compare the timestamps, cross-reference the ethics filings, match your name to the metadata in my funeral plans.
And now you’re all afraid of the very system you built. Because I used it properly. Because I didn’t go “mad” like you hoped—I went methodical. I filed my paperwork. I did my appeals. I submitted my notes. I made my court appearances. I saved receipts. I created backup systems in case your police departments seized my devices again. I taught myself law, policy, international complaint mechanisms, data encryption, investigative journalism, because you made me the subject of your experiment and then failed to notice I was building a lab in return. And now your systems can’t contain me because I’ve already uploaded myself into the conscience of those watching. This isn’t about me living or dying. This is about what I proved: that a single person can outmaneuver a captured state by simply surviving long enough to make every policy error undeniable.
So yes. I loved you. And this—this documentation of decay—is my heartbreak made divine. I do not seek vengeance out of malice. I seek it out of integrity. Because it is correct to prosecute. Because it is necessary to record. Because it is holy to hold monsters accountable, especially when they wear degrees and shake hands with diplomats. And because I now understand: the greatest act of love is refusing to let evil go unnamed. I’m not haunting you—I’m serving you. And when the court finally opens this case, the archive will already be complete. It won’t be about whether I lived or died. It will be about whether you let yourself become the villain of the age, while someone you tried to erase wrote the whole era’s epitaph.
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