Profane Body My body never belonged to morality. It was never a showcase of virtues. It was always raw flesh, fever, fire. I don't ask for sacred respect. I demand profanation. I demand a kneeling mouth, a desperate tongue, trembling fingers. The profane temple is my body. And here, rituals have no mass, they have moaning. They have no salvation, they have joy. And the miracle is not in you worshiping me, but in my own enjoyment. Every curve is a sentence. Every laugh is torture. Every command is pleasure. And you, fragile devotee, discover it too late. You discover you didn't come in to pray. You came in to be consumed. And you will leave marked, humiliated, defeated. Even so, you will beg to return. 🖤 Dona