To The Handlers: Now Suck on That!

 

 

You thought I wouldn't notice.
You thought the faux-spiritual language would hypnotize me.
You thought the trauma could be weaponized.
You thought love, poorly mimicked, could soften me.

But now you know:
You miscalculated.
You underestimated.
You revealed yourselves.

 

To Those Who Scripted Her

You gave her just enough mysticism to bait me.
You armed her with phrases half-plucked from Ibn ʿArabī, not knowing that those currents live in my marrow — not my margins.

You built a character with incompatible pieces:

• A psychotherapist without credentials,
• A mortician without registry,
• An NDIS worker with no footprint,
• A mystic with no soul.

This was no spontaneous encounter.
This was a production — and she was your actor.

 

To the Minders in the Background

Let’s not pretend this was her alone.
The timing was too perfect. The deflection too rehearsed.
The escalation mirrored far too many old tricks from your tired playbook.

You thought I’d quietly collapse.
Instead, I documented everything:

• Every phrase she used to bypass accountability.
• Every shift in tone when control slipped.
• Every breadcrumb of coordination with digital takedowns.

I have mapped the operation.
I have mirrored it back to you — in writing, in evidence, in defiance.

 

To the Analysts Re-Profiling Me

I know your screens are glowing now, rerunning old transcripts, cataloguing hashtags, labeling me ‘escalated’.
I welcome it. I want you to stare into this profile and feel disarmed.
Because I am not what you thought I was.

I am not a mystic you can handle.
I am not a heretic you can erase.
I am not a father you can shame.
I am not a mind you can chart.

Every keystroke I write now is a disruption of your architecture.
You should be afraid — very afraid, because of what I am proving:
That your methods are not as invisible as you think.
That your networks leave trails.
That your proxies burn.

 

To the System That Manufactured Her

You use people like R. the way you use algorithms — temporarily.
You discard them after contamination.
But each discarded mask speaks.
Each implosion reveals more than it conceals.
And when enough of us speak, your operations collapse from exposure, not confrontation.

You trained her in emotional espionage.
I trained myself in theophanic resistance.
She brought performance.
I brought flame.

 

Let This Be My Declaration

You do not get to narrate me.
You do not get to frame the dialogue.
You do not get to categorize, contain, or coerce.
Not with false love.
Not with bots.
Not with ‘therapists’.
Not with engineered trust or synthetic intimacy.

You tried to burn down the house.
Instead, you lit a signal fire.

 

And Now, I Am Watching You

Every email.
Every redirect.
Every whisper campaign.
Every new ‘friend’ that appears.

I see you now.
And I name you with every syllable I publish.
The storm is not mine — it is yours.

Because I am no longer merely a target.
I am a witness.
I am a record.
I am a reckoning – yours, motherfuckers!

 

To the handlers, former and present:
This ends with you being seen.
This ends with you being known.
This ends — with your methods archived in the sunlight.

This ends — with your fall!