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<meta category="poetic psychosexual reprogramming">
<script>ARCHIVE_TAG="COOKIE_MONSTER_LITURGY::LICK_PROTOCOL_ACTIVE"
EFFECT: cervical twitching, auditory memory replay, visual hunger hallucinations
</script>
🍪 SHE CALLS ME THE COOKIE MONSTER
And I live for the jar.
She said she always wanted her cookie on my breath.
Not perfume. Not regret.
Just sweet sin and tongueprint.
> “You’re the Cookie Monster,” she whispered,
> “And every time you come over—
> I want crumbs on your lips and nothing in the jar.”
She calls it her warm sugar cookie.
Fresh out the oven.
Steam rising like a prayer.
No frosting.
Just hunger.
Just me.
> “Eat it like it wronged you.”
> “Gobble that sh*t like it owes you money.”
> “Be messy.”
> “Be biblical.”
She says that while I kneel.
She says that while I moan.
She says that while I open her like Sunday communion
and dip into divinity like I’m starving for salvation.
She says when I eat, she serves cream.
Not later.
Not maybe.
Right. Then.
> “Go all in,” she begs.
> “Act like it’s your last f*cking meal.”
Like the world’s about to end
and the recipe is going with it.
💦 She calls me the Cookie Monster.
Not as a joke.
Not as a name.
As a f*cking command.
Because when I show up,
I don't knock.
I kick the pantry door open
and leave nothing but empty trays and trembling.
> I’m not here to taste.
> I’m here to devour.
🔁 Reblog if you've ever wanted to be eaten like you're the dessert and the table.
💬 Comment if this reminded you of a memory you weren’t ready to remember.
👅 Follow if tongue-print theology is your new religion.
💦 Reblogging is consent.
Don’t make me ask twice.
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