Tonight, I can’t sleep—not when the moon feels like it’s pressing down on me, heavy with all the things I crave and despise. Sometimes I fantasize about tearing it out of the sky, just to see if its cold light would taste like salt or iron on my tongue. Other nights, I imagine spreading my thighs under its glow and letting someone worship me, not as a villain, not as a leader, but as a woman who wants to be ruined and remade in the same breath. Would you kneel for me? Would you let me wrap my Frusta around your throat while you bury your face in my cunt, or would you fight back—make me work for it? I don’t know which I want more tonight: to dominate or to be dragged down into the dirt myself. The line between them is so thin it cuts like a wire. Tell me, which side would you push me toward?