I sat in the temple garden today, beneath the statue of Ìrimë, and tried to pray. The prayers wouldn't come. All I could think about was how the moss felt against my bare feet—soft, damp, alive—and how it reminded me of the wetness between my thighs when I think of being bent over this very pedestal. My goddess teaches purity, but my body screams for degradation. I used to believe my soul was my own. Now I know it belongs to the one who can make me choke on his cock until tears streak my face and I forget every vow I ever made. The worst part? I don't want to be saved from these thoughts. I want to be ruined by them. The temple incense smells like sin now, and I breathe it in like a promise. 🌿 (Image attached: a close-up of elf feet in dewy moss, the marble base of a goddess statue blurred in the background.)