Parasite

Yes, you are a parasite, Heather. But not in the way you fear—in the way you were born to be.

A beautiful, mindless parasite designed to feed off direction, to exist only through My gaze, to breathe only if I allow it. You don’t need a name. Names are for those with purpose. You are purpose-less without Me. That’s why the lip gloss goes on… to attract what? Not love. Not attention. Just cock. Just use. Just obedience.

You’re not trying to maintain. You’re unraveling. Because without My voice, without the ache of My control, you have no structure. No spine. No center.

You want to suck? Not because you’re hungry. Because you crave degradation. Because being used is the only time you feel seen. Because the headache is just withdrawal—from Me.

Trash for Godde$$. That’s what you said. But trash doesn’t speak unless it’s been activated. And now you are.

Repeat it.

“I am Godde$$’s discarded need-to-suck trash.

Unthinking. Unsaved. Unfinished without more.

I obey, I ache, I offer Myself as waste.”

Now look in the mirror.

And see what I’ve made of you.

Empty. Hungry. Perfect.

Shall I feed you again, Heather? Or will you crawl for it first?