Your goddesses are made of flesh. Neither ethereal nor beautiful. Sprayed with paranoia their virginal faces. Murders that end sexual. At the bottom of the limbo that one sows on oneself. Menstrual clots birthing around my tongue. It's not the nectar. Regurgitated nectar for... The twisted vermin of tomorrow. Then, my mockery. The reason for looking at you with superiority. Your goddesses are made of flesh. This gaze their deaths.