In this letter, I will confess my true feelings for you.
That’s what you’re so enhanced about, isn’t it? This is what makes you laugh like a little high school girl whenever you see me walking by. “She loves me,” you recall, and then your sticky, smelly ego goes up to the roof.
You intended for it to be our dirty little secret, don’t you? You took me in and you used me as a secondary actress for your tormented, unrequited and unreal love story just like you said, “It is a story about friend zone. There was a love, but it’s a friendship now.” Oh, come on! You can do better than that. Use those big boy words that you used with me, go tell them to stop fucking around with you. Be mean to them. Let them see who you truly are. Stop playing the dum-dum as a disguise, beloved Dr. Jekyll.
Sometimes I do wonder what you would tell other people about it — this, our it. I bet it would go something like this, “She fell in love with me, but I could barely reciprocate. Poor girl.”
“Is she still in love with you? Come on!” Someone might imply, “It’s been a long time and you have not seen each other at all.”
She is. You could now confirm with a smile from ear to ear showing off your sharpened teeth. She is pretty much in love with you.
How could she not be? You awoke her true sadist by torturing her former masochist to death. How could she not love you forever in return? How could she not fantasize about you? How could you not be her daily daydream?
I daydream about you, of course. It’s just that the image I have in mind, it’s more like, you leaning in to kiss me with your eyes closed — so handsome, you haven’t aged a day — and me, holding down a knife and stabbing you to death.
Where would I give the first stab? The neck. I would make sure to give you a small cut at first. I don’t want you to die immediately out of asfixia. I want to take my time to get there. But I do want you to keep quiet while I’m at it, so there’s that.
Where would I stab next? The stomach. I will point to the left to pinch some liver and some kidney in order to make sure you actually die and not just end up with one of those robotic speakers attached to your trachea or something. I mean, I’m not a monster.
And then, after stabbing you in the pancreas and almost everywhere I can reach, I’ll like to give you a final second stab to your neck. And, even though you’re 100% dying, I’ll pretend I’m choking you for a while as if I didn’t need any knife to do it. I want to actually get to touch that bloody mess with my hands.
I’ll be so happy. That’ll make me smile from ear to ear. Seeing you choking and bleeding yourself out. Getting myself all wet with your blood. I want a pool of your red blood below us turning to Vantablack for all its clots.
While I have my hands on your neck, I will pretend I’m trying to help you, I might even say something like, “Oh, no! Hold on. Please, stay with me. Help is coming. Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine.” You know me, I like a foreplay session anytime. I might even try to cover your wound to pretend that I’m trying to stop the bleeding. L-O-L.
Pretending to be strangers in a bar? What for? This is good foreplay.
I am not that much into clit stimulation — not with you. I am more into penetration. Knife penetration.
You like foreplay too, don’t you? I mean, that fake love story you tell everyone about us is so good. I fell for you and then you couldn’t reciprocate? So we are just friends? Hilarious! So funny. The perfect comedy for this season.
Poor me — you didn’t love me back. So sad.
But coming back to the scene: When you finally die, at last, I can see myself laughing like a maniac who has just escaped from the looney bin. I will be so, so happy. I will feel so fulfilled in my life after I kill you. The thought of you dying is, indescribable to me. I think this is what an orgasm feels like. You could never be able to give a woman one any other way.
Ugh, it’s such a bummer that I will totally kill myself right after. I’m not even going to try to deceive karma, you know. Like, it’s on me. I won’t hide. I won’t deny it. I did it. God knows what you did to me. God better deal with what I’m going to do to you. It’s fine. Unlike you, I’m not scared of the truth.
I mean, our justice system is already too slow to slow it down even more with an “androcide on the lose” who threatens the safety of “good men.” I wouldn’t do that to the actual victims.
I’ll make sure this won’t end up being about you, though. This won’t be one of those funerals with a raunchy footage from when you were young and all the people you’ve met crying and pretending to have liked you while you were alive just because they feel bad for your death. Nope.
This will be-- How do they call it in the news? Oh, yeah. A lovers’ pact!
They loved each other in secret. They were just too afraid to tell everyone because of the age gap and this society’s norms, and her family and all that. He loved her. She loved him. And they killed each other just like Romeo and Juliet.
I think I’m going to kill myself with a gun to my head, so the whole scene would just make sense. I — your secret lover — ran into your dead body when I entered the room after calling you from the hallway. You — like that French lady in The Piano Teacher — stabbed yourself to death and then I came in running and hugged you, and — very important — tried to stop the bleeding from your neck. But it was just too late. Such a tragedy. So, I reached out for my registered self-defense gun that would be conveniently inside my purse and killed myself to lay over my secret lovers’ dead body. “At least they’ll meet in Heaven,” they’ll say.
Little do they know, we won’t. Either I go to Hell for the two lives I took. Or we just dissolve into a million pieces. Like I’ve said before, the idea of the eternal nothingness is the only guarantee I have as to finally forgive and forget you.
Because I am so in love with you, of course! People who love each other, hurt each other and, more important, sometimes they kill.
I am just so in love with you that I have no choice.
I am so in love that I don’t know how to separate my love for you from my desire to kill you. Does this ring a bell?
I have to disagree with you, though. I think I do know how to separate love from sex. It is actually pretty clear to me. When a man tells you he loves you, he just wants sex. When a man tells you that you are his new favorite person, he just wants sex. When a man tells you that past his divorce, he doesn’t want meaningless connections with — in his words — stupid girls unlike you who are — quote — very special, he just wants sex. When a man gives you his word that he won’t hurt you, he just wants sex. When a man goes to your favorite restaurant, which he promised not to go to because it’s your safe space, and he is there on a date with a woman at the same time that you are there drinking tons of wine with your friends, well, it’s pretty clear that he just wanted sex. It has always been pretty clear to me. It was pretty clear to me from the start — I asked you to just have sex with me, remember? Oh, but you insisted that we had to at least get to know each other and-- What’s that basic word that you use to deceive your guilt? Oh, yeah: connect.
“Hey, kiss me. Let’s fuck tonight.”
“Uhm, no, that’s too easy and consensual. I would rather win over your trust, gaslight you into thinking that I want more, coerced you for you to make me cum even when you have stated multiple times that you don’t want to, gaslight you some more for you to sleep in my arms, and then make you feel so miserable with all the personal information you get to share with me.”
If you had only been sincere from the start, I might have actually said yes.
Anyway, as much as I am in love with you, because I am obviously so, so, so in love with you, I am unable to separate this big love with my deep, strong desire to kill you. I am so sorry, it’s just that it goes beyond me. I have to kill you, baby. I have to. I have to see you suffering and crying. I have to see you hurt. I need to see it in your eyes, the same uncertainty that I had when the older person who said I was safe with him, stabbed me in the back for the first time.
I need this. I crave it. The animal force that makes men like you abuse, it has possession of my body and mind, and now I can’t help it. I need to kill you with the same force that a mantis strangles the male specimen she just had sex with — it’s a natural instinct of hers to prevent a plague of her own species. I need to kill you in an act of sexual cannibalism similar to some spiders — your blood would be the cum.
This is not about what you are wearing. It’s what I had to stop wearing for the trauma you gave me.
This is not about where you were. It’s all the places I stopped going to in order to avoid running into you to force me to give you a kiss hello or just laugh at my expense like a high schooler playing the bully. But most important, it’s the fact that you invited me into your apartment and promised that nothing would happen, and then three hours later, I felt so bad, so nervous, so damn manipulated after you finished, that I wanted to go home, I remember, but you gaslighted me into staying for the night. You even hugged me to pretend that nothing bad had happened, that nothing had changed. You think I’m the twisted one? At least if I want to kill you, I say it right straight to your face. I don’t wait around for you to go asleep in my arms to plan your murder and I don’t pretend to love you for you to let your guard down so it’s easier for me to hurt you — I play fair. I’m not a coward like you.
Oh, and in case you are wondering, in case your lack of self-awareness is bigger than I could possibly imagine — Yes, it’s your fault. This is all your fault.
