When someone particular who checks certain boxes shows curiosity in my life and thoughts, I strangle their throats. I hold their food pipe and overshare my darkness, my stupidity, my naivety. I let them choke on me so they can feel satisfied and leave me alone. They do not even know they have been abused by me.
Usually I avoid it, but sometimes, I choose my victims once every few years. I do not eat their food; I feed them my rot until they can no longer swallow. I watch their sympathy turn to bile. When they flee, I am not a person anymore; I am just the scent of the disaster they barely survived. I leave them hollowed out by my history, a shell of curiosity discarded on the floor.
This is my hobby. To strangle people and stuff their mouths with my emotions and traumas and laughs and sorrows. What a pity! Poor humans! What a filthy monster I am! Poor humans!
And those who survive are equally monstrous. They are the kind of monsters my monsters would love to dance with. I would love hosting them.
— Sadia Hakim / Letters Unsent
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