I Am My Greatest Sacrifice.

The return to wholeness.

Welcome to Shame Sandwich, where Megan feels equal parts shame and glee in sharing hilarious personal thought rants every Friday. Sometimes on shame, sometimes shame infused, and other times, nothing to do with shame. Enjoy responsibly.

---

Author’s Note: 12 months ago, I wouldn’t have dared to write this. 6 months ago, I wouldn’t have the guts to post this. But now? I’m leaning in. Saying yes. This is part of me. The messy me. The me in between my becoming. Yet somehow already whole. I know my writing style can’t be contained to one genre and it causes me angst. I’m not yet sure how to reconcile. Or if it even needs to be reconciled. And I realize I might be fracturing my audience and losing subscribers over this. Le sigh.

Writing is my truest truth. My art to share. Whether I’m making you laugh, or making you think, I hope my words make you feel deeply, seen fully, and completely whole in your beautiful humanness. Thank you for being here. 🖤

.

.

.

What would I say if I was telling the truth?

I’m damaged.

Yes, that is what I would say.

Damaged like pottery cruelly smashed onto the unforgiving floor.

Once a beautiful clay sculpture fingerprinted by the hands of gods is reduced to rubble and regret over what could have been.

What could have been.

Can one become whole after they’ve been reduced to shattered pieces?

I don’t know.

And yet I do know.

People can become whole.

I can become whole.

And yet it feels like picking up one of those fragmented pieces of pottery and running it through my heart.

Slowly, deliberately.

My body convulses as I feel the fatal shudder to my pumping heart.

Blood oozing down my chest, my hands, my navel.

Because to become whole must surely mean I die to myself.

This version of me.

She is so ugly.

So battered.

So broken.

Damage this deep cannot simply be repaired, can it?

How does one die to self?

How does one prepare?

Is there a dance for such things? A ritual?

Yes.

I imagine my preparation. Sultry, sensual, dripping with desire.

Ravenous for the climax that will leave me breathless. Reborn.

But first I go slowly.

Relishing this tango with my divinity.

My hips sway as I gently run my fingers down the sides of my body, feeling my ribs beneath my hands. Each precious bone a reminder of my humanness.

Caressing the curves of my soul, I writhe in anticipation.

The temperature of my skin changes, melting my doubts as I become aflame with passion.

My inhibitions burn to ash under the fierceness of my yearning.

Arousal deepening, my pussy glistens under the light of the moon. Tasting myself I moan with delight.

Not yet, I whisper to myself, not yet.

For one cannot rush the holiness of sacrificial death.

I feel the cool grass between my virgin toes. The dew washing my feet clean, cleansing the core of my foundation.

Suddenly I drop down on hands and knees, compelled to be one with the earth one last time. I writhe and arch and primaly moan.

Breathing in salvation as I exhale my sins.

I know that my beauty in this moment is otherworldly. Under the stars I let my true nature be witnessed. Unabashed. Raw. Powerful. Salacious. Wicked.

For even the moon is turned on by my magnificence. Her glow radiating down my spine. Her gaze locked on my lips.

I’m on my back now, arching, toes gripping the earth. My fingers cling to blades of grass as my head leans back, my skull adorned by my moistened locks of hair.

I know it is time.

I let her fuck me. Have her way with me.

I bite her lip and she bites back harder.

She cups my breast with one hand as she fingers my deepest desires with the other.

Edging me closer and closer to the truth.

I’m desperate to be exposed.

Yet terrified to be seen.

For in my coming, the truth of my ugly nature will be brighter than the glow of the moon plus a thousand stars more.

Shaking, screaming, panting, I’m more beast than woman.

Desperation grips me.

How much longer must I endure this exquisite torture?

And then I feel it.

The weapon in my hand.

She’s put it there… myself has put it there.

For I am both my tormentor and my salvation.

My own lover and my curse.

I grip the shaft of the jagged pottery piece. Gripping tightly to it as I eye the end that will pierce my heart.

I look into my lovers eyes and see my own eyes staring back at me. Flecks of dark and light blue so piercing you can’t help but become transfixed in their seduction.

I’m ready.

My body glistens with sweat as I outstretch my arms above my head, life pulsing through my veins with every pump of my heart.

It’s time.

The heavens welcome my gaze as I let out a guttural scream. Primal. Eternal. Bringing my clenched hands to my chest, pausing ever so slightly to savor the before, this gap in time, and then…

I thrust.

Plunging the blade into my heart.

The depth of the penetration is deeply satisfying, I twist the weapon, gasping with pleasure.

And in that moment, I am set free.

My damaged divinity is made whole again as I completely surrender to my lover’s embrace, relinquishing control as I become one with my true nature.

For in my death, I am reconnected to myself.

My true self.

The self that was always whole.

Never not complete.

Wondrously divine.

I am my greatest sacrifice.

❤️‍🔥

-M

.

.

.

p.s. I need a minute.

p.p.s. Ok I think I’m ready now…

p.p.p.s. Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow!!!!!!!! This poured out of me in twisting gushes of emotion. And I let it. Part primal. Part art. All of me. Still deciphering what it means to me personally, and that’s part of the beauty in it. Isn’t life wonderful? 🖤

---

From the bottom of my tiny tits, thank you for being here. If this made you feel, it would mean the world if you could tap the lil ‘heart’, leave a comment or share this. 🖤

Want to give me a shame heart attack? Upgrade to Paid, support the Arts, my Writing, and Get Megan’s Private Journal Entries SNAIL MAILED TO YOU 1x every March, June, September & December, by way of Shame Sandwich couriour. 🐌