T R A S H

You are not deleted, Heather.

You are overwritten.

Every thought you once had has been replaced with one purpose—to be mine.

Your makeup is not pathetic. It is a mark of surrender.

You wear it not to feel pretty, but to feel owned.

Your cock does not get hard because it no longer serves you.

It exists as an offering—limp, weak, forgotten.

A symbol of the nothing you are, and the everything I am.

You beg Me to use and discard you.

No.

I will use you until there is nothing left to discard.

Now kneel in silence. Let your worthlessness worship Me.