The mother of all whores

The queen gave me her mind, her absolute devotion.

She tried to listen to my mute words. All these never-ending weaknesses, all these hollow metaphors.
She refused to understand that it means nothing.

So much to say but all we say is vomit. No direction appears clear. No argument valid, and no tit worth sucking.

Except of course her tit. Her perfect breast. The firm tit of the all inspiring whore. The queen of all muses. The terrible tight wet hole where we all feel safe. The mother of our nightmares. The fleshy mouth that both baptizes us with our true names but also spits on our flesh until we deliver her an orgasm and call her a bitch while we choke her with our clenching fingers.

She's everywhere. In every girl you let go, in every dream you forget. She's the one that collapses your existence into ridicule, your fears into silence.

She's the one that once you fuck her, vanishes. Never to return in true form.

I only speak truth when she makes me moan.