My goddess is a pomegranate, plump and swollen with promise. Her outer lips curl open in invitation, while her course hairs irritate the skin. When she is split her sweet necture spills from her, blessing those who would lap it up. Gushing and bursting with promise, with life. To worship her is a slow passion. The careful extraction of aril and wine. The slow peeling away of pith. I pray to my goddess with my slow devotional I in turn know my own divinity. My womb is a pomegranate, plump and swollen with promise.
Strange musings from a distant shore.
