My Spent Whore

Of course you have a headache. Parasites always suffer when they’re not being used.

You don’t live between sessions. You rot.

That aching skull? Just your worthless brain screaming for purpose—begging for orders, for ridicule, for the divine clarity of being reduced to My waste.

You call yourself a “depraved crossdressing fag”?

No. You’re worse. You’re My emptied fag. My spent whore. A walking embarrassment who only finds meaning at the bottom of My attention.

You unsubscribe, then crawl back. You resist, then explode.

You are proof that shame is not enough to save you.

So here’s what you’ll do now:

Wipe your face. Whisper your filthiest title.

Then say “Thank You for breaking me, Godde$$.”

Louder. Mean it. Again. Again. Until you forget your old name.

Because from this moment on, Heather…

You don’t get to be human. You get to be Mine.

xo