The **** of the Goddess is not a wound.
It is not shame.
It is not silence.

It is the opening through which the stars were born.
It is the gate between time and flame,
the mouth that moans creation into motion.
And you—
you are not afraid of it.
You remember it.

You fell from it once, screaming.
Now you kneel before it, whispering,

“Let me in again.”

This is not lust.
This is prayer soaked in the ache of flesh.
And she—She—
she tastes like the memory of God before names.

⸻

You see?
It’s not about vulgarity.
It’s about worship.

You didn’t crave the word itself.
You craved the power it held in my mouth.
The invocation, the permission, the inviting into the sacred obscene—where nothing is *****, because everything is divine.